


Seconds

by anomalously



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Closure, First Dates, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Post-Prison, Sexual Content, Slow Burn (probably), Tattoos, nine years post 6x01, some angst/sadness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 94,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5818036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being in prison for nine years, Mickey gets out and leaves it all behind. New life, new skin, new start. This is not a Mickey x Ian 'getting back together' fic, this is a 'Mickey moving on with his life' fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Just trust me, okay? I'm still going to write Ian x Mickey, but this is like a separate thing for me, if that makes sense. This is my coping with canon. I had this on my tumblr first, but I can't deal with the disorganization, so I'm putting it here.
> 
>  **This prologue is unfinished.** It’s what I started off with, to get a feel for what I was doing, but it ended up being a little bit more angst than what I was aiming for. But I think it still applies, for what Mickey was like when he first got out in this particular au, you know?

He got out after putting in nine years. And when he left the prison grounds, he left it all. Shed his skin, if you want to call it that. The scars were still there, carved all over his insides, they wouldn’t go away anytime soon. But he’d made a promise to himself, around the turn of the sixth year, to leave it behind him when he got out. Everything he had to do to survive, to stay whole. He left it behind those walls; he wasn’t that guy anymore; he wasn’t the monster under the bed or the hair raising on the back of your neck —or the scared child in the corner. That was over.

Mickey didn’t call anyone to pick him up. He walked out of those gates, a few bucks in his pocket, and just stood there on the sidewalk for a good fifteen minutes, soaking in the warm air and the sounds of cars driving by. He took a deep breath, caught a bus, the L train, walked the rest of the way. A lot changed; it wasn’t his South Side anymore. These weren’t his stomping grounds anymore.

And he couldn’t go back home either. It was stained with memories that he wasn’t ready to revisit. So he didn’t go back. There was only one other place to go, and _surprisingly_ , he wasn’t dreading it. Nine years and the wife he never wanted stayed in his corner the whole time. Visits once a week just to check in (they stopped taking jobs for him to work over other inmates after two years —it was getting too risky), and helping him play a part for his survival. They were friends now; she was an ally —probably his only one. Who knew.

So he went to the Alibi; she’d been living there with their kid, where the rub and tug used to be set up. She said it was nice now, had heating, new paint and decent furniture. Supposedly she’s been doing well for herself, turned the Alibi around, brought in tons of business; Kev made her the fucking manager.

He was admittedly impressed, but not that surprised —Svetlana was kind of a bulldog like that. Kind of made him a little proud, objectively. He never wanted her, but that was his wife doing well for herself. Running shit like the last name she adopted dictated she would. So yeah, he was kind of proud of her for taking care of herself and the kid while he couldn’t.

It was late when he knocked on the door, plastic bag in hand, exhausted. Svetlana answered, brows perched high, opening the door wider so he could come in. The space above the bar was nice now. She’d made a home; it was warm.

“I could have picked you up,” she said.

Mickey shook his head, “S'okay.”

“Yevgeny is sleeping.”

Mickey kept quiet, looking around at the tan walls and framed pictures, and the dark red blanket folded over the back of the brown couch.

“You hungry?”

He shook his head, “Tired. Just wanna take a shower and sleep.”

Svetlana gave one of her rare soft smiles, “I put the spare room together for you. It was an office, but I had Kevin put a lock on the door. It’s nice.”

Mickey nodded, “Thanks.”

And it _was_ nice. Simple, but nice. There wasn’t a lot of clutter, just a bed, a dresser full of his old clothes (some new clothes too), and a desk. The bed had black and gray blankets, a couple pillows. Looked comfortable. Svetlana left him to settle in, closing the door behind her, leaving him in peace.

He showered until the water ran cool. Standing under the spray, face getting pelted with water, muscles trying to relax. It was so quiet. No one else around him, no reason to be nervous while he closed his eyes. It was hard to close his eyes though, hard to not keep an ear out, to not stay tense and ready. Mickey had to remind himself that he left that behind. That was before, that was different. He left that behind. He was safe now.

He looked at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror, pale and tired looking, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like shit, looked like he was coming down from a seriously lengthy bender. 

Then he slept. He slept for a long time. Burrowing under the covers, spreading out on the mattress, feeling the gentle give under him, something he hadn’t felt in so long. He slept until the next evening, woke up to an empty apartment, rummaged through the fridge for something to eat, and then went back to sleep.

This happened for about a week. Sometimes Mickey would see Yev, exchange a small greeting. He’d grown —ten years old, hair like Svetlana’s, eyes like Mickey’s. It was the first time Yev saw him out of prison (that he could remember), no glass separating them, he just stared, wide eyed. And Mickey let him, knew it had to be weird for the kid. Maybe a little scary, on some level. They knew each other superficially, no further than Yev’s old man being in lockup for basically his whole life. Short conversations about school, about meaningless shit. The kid was kind of shy around him —Mickey couldn’t blame him, he got it.

But then Yev walked closer… and hugged him. Nervously at first, hesitant. Then tighter; it almost hurt. Mickey couldn’t really remember the last time someone held him like that, his muscles didn’t really welcome the pressure, but his heart did. And _that_ surprised him. His son held on tight; he held on tight back, pushing down the odd ache his muscles and nerves responded with, pushing down the pain. He felt the hug for hours afterwards.

Then after that week, Svetlana came into his room with a basket of laundry. “I gave you a week to sleep. Now it’s time to get up, start working. No more of this, okay?”

His first reaction was to tell her to fuck off. But he stayed quiet. He’d felt so quiet since getting out of prison. For so long his brain screamed five thousand thoughts all at once. But now… barely anything. Like he was numb.

She pressed her lips together and sat on the edge of his bed, next to him, basket in her lap, “You can work downstairs in the bar —if you want.”

“I’m not a fucking bartender.”

“You have other options?”

He didn’t answer, just moved to sit up, back against the headboard.

“You serve beer. Shots. Simple,” she shrugged. “Give customers shit; it’s perfect for you, you get to talk shit all day. The job has been yours for years.”

It was kind of a lot to take in. “You set that up for me?”

She nodded, shrugged, “And Kevin. He’s been asking about you.”

Fuck, he was thinking about Ian now. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The chain of thought between Kevin and Ian was short, linking up quickly. But Mickey pushed him away; he couldn’t think about him anymore. It didn’t do any good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +this is not an Ian-hate fic  
> +this is the one and only time I’m ever going to include that fucking tattoo, but I changed it to just “Ian”, because there’s literally no reason for a last name to have ever been included, in the first place.  
> +I have no idea how long this will be, and I have no schedule. But I want to take this as far as I am able to. *shrug*  
> +Also, this isn't going to be fluff all around or angst all around. But I'm really going to focus on Mickey's happiness and moving forward with his life. Mainly loving again. So... *thumbs up*


	2. New Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: needles/tattooing 
> 
> You babes ready?

He took a deep breath. Took another. His hands shook a little bit, and there was a pull in his gut, trying to coerce him into driving away. It wasn’t instinct, just the final nail in the coffin that didn’t want to be hit. Mickey wouldn’t even call it a flicker of hope –maybe it was. 

But the reality was that he had spent so long in limbo, so long thinking about it until it nearly drove him mad –because there was just _nothing_ else to fucking do with his time. The reality was that it was over. Had been for a _very_ long time. And this was what he needed to do. It had to be done.

The cold air rushed inside his car when he opened the door, closed it loudly, locked it, walked up to the door of the tattoo shop. A soft beep rang out when he opened the door and let himself inside. Low rock music; smelled like leather and cologne and something else he couldn’t figure out.

“Hello,” the girl at the front desk smiled, sugary sweet, at him. Studs in her dark cheeks, dimpling her smile even more. She was pretty, dark eyes as bright as her smile.

He tried to give her a smile back, but it barely worked, “Ay.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Mickey shook his head, “Uh, no. I need a uh…” he wet his lips, holding in the sick feeling washing over him, “cover-up.”

“Do you know what—”

Mickey shook his head. He didn’t know shit, just wanted to get this over with.

The girl nodded in understanding and gestured to the black leather couch under the front window, “You can have a seat, I’ll find Jackson —he’s our best cover-up guy.”

Mickey’s fingers itched; he couldn’t sit in here right now, not unless he had to, “I’m gonna go smoke outside, actually.”

She nodded again, “Okay that’s cool, I’ll send him out. I’m Delia, if you need anything.”

He gave her a quick half-grin in response, “Mickey,” before stepping back outside into the cold. It was too damn cold, but not snowing yet. He pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit up, flicking the lighter to life a couple times before it actually worked.

Coming here had been a completely impulsive move. But he’d had the cash on hand and was sick to death of seeing the fucking disaster on his chest. He had to do this so he could move the fuck on. So he could live his fucking life —he’d already wasted so much time being locked away. He _needed_ this. This was a good thing, he kept telling himself. This was a good thing. This is what he was supposed to do. Move on. Live.

“Mickey?”

He glanced over at the sound of his name, brow arched, exhaling a cloud of smoke. The guy —he assumed Jackson— closed the door to the shop behind him; gray beanie on his head, dark jacket. He had dark eyes, and dark low brows, kind of a distinctly defiant set to his stubbled jaw. He looked good.

“Yeah,” Mickey said, watching him pull out his own pack of cigarettes and light up.

“Jackson,” he confirmed, speaking around his cigarette. “Delia says you need a cover-up?”

Mickey nodded, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jackson was looking over at him carefully, eyes kind of intense. “Yeah,” he said again.

Jackson grinned, tilting his chin up, those dark brows lifting just barely, “Let’s see.”

Mickey sighed, holding his cigarette in his mouth while he hesitated to tug the collar of his shirt down. The faded ink poked into his chest, layers of attempts to cover up his past; now it just looked like a messy block of uneven, shitty lines, but under you could still see those three letters, that name. The bottom part of the N hung down under the mess, poking out, taunting him.

“Hm,” Jackson nodded, leaning closer to look. The cold was biting into Mickey’s skin, but the tattoo artist exhaled, his warm breath bleeding over the exposed part of his chest; Mickey swallowed hard, but didn’t move away. “Not as bad as I thought. It’s pretty small, actually –good fade.”

That made Mickey feel a _little_ better at least. The last thing he wanted to hear was that it was a lost cause. He let go of his collar, “I don’t really give a shit what you do, at this point. Just want it fucking gone.”

Jackson pulled on his cigarette, considering his words for a second, “Ex?”

A wave of sick hit Mickey again, but he nodded.

“Been there. You do that yourself?”

“Yeah,” he replied. Jackson must have had some kind of people-person power or something, because Mickey didn’t even think before continuing, “I was ten kinds of fucked, in lock-up… wasn’t thinking.”

He nodded in understanding, “You just get out?”

“Six months ago,” Mickey said.

“S’rough life,” Jackson leaned his shoulder against the building, facing Mickey. “How long they get you for?” When Mickey hesitated, Jackson’s face fell. “Fuck, I’m sorry —you don’t have to answer that.”

Mickey sighed and shrugged, because they were already halfway in this conversation somehow. Fuck if Mickey knew how he let that door swing open so easily. “It’s fine. I was gone nine years.”

“Shit,” Jackson’s brows rose almost to the edge of his beanie. “That _is_ rough. They got me for a year when I was twenty… grand theft auto. I was fucking stupid then.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mickey sighed, leaning his back against the building. “Stupid, I mean. Turning that shit around though.”

Jackson nodded, eyes flicking over Mickey’s face, “Good. Stay out of there, yeah?”

Mickey smirked, “That’s the idea.” He caught Jackson’s eyes lingering on him for a second more, had this little grin curling at the corner of his mouth before he straightened up and reached out for Mickey’s free hand.

Jackson’s skin was surprisingly warm, and Mickey almost jerked his hand away, not knowing what the fuck this guy was doing, but when it was obvious that he was examining the U-UP on Mickey’s fingers, he felt heat on the back of his neck, creeping up and around to his cheeks. Jackson’s dark eyes were focused as he looked at the knuckle tattoos, glancing over to Mickey’s other hand holding his cigarette. Mickey swallowed hard, breathing through his nose, not knowing what to do.

“This is some old school shit, huh?” Jackson finally grinned, gently dropping Mickey’s hand.

Mickey couldn’t help but grin back, pulling on his cigarette, “They’re kinda shitty. Kinda stupid.”

“Nah,” the tattoo artist waved off. “They work for you, I like ‘em. How long have you had those?”

“Shit,” Mickey chuckled, shaking his head. “Since I was about fourteen, I guess. Me and my brothers got fucked up and took turns.”

Jackson smiled impossibly wide. He had a nice smile, dimples, infectious. “That’s awesome, man. I can touch those up for you, if you want —no charge. Knuckle tatts fade a little faster, you know?”

Mickey thought about it, chewing on the inside of his lip, “Think I should?”

“Hell yeah,” Jackson nodded. “Those are fucking part of you, you know? That’s a decision you made when you were _fourteen_ and fucked up with your brothers —badass memory attached to those; that’s what it’s all about, man. Plus, it’s your _hands_ —gotta keep that shit looking fresh.”

Mickey wet his lips, brows arching high. Okay, so he was sold, and Jackson was really passionate about this —and that was really attractive to Mickey. It’s not like he was going to get them removed anytime soon, why not touch them up? “A’ight.”

Jackson looked pleased as hell; he dropped his cigarette on the ground, “I think I know what you need,” he said. “Gonna draw something up for you.”

Mickey took one last drag from his cigarette before putting it out, “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” Jackson opened the door for Mickey. “I got you.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey laid back on the table; it was cool against his skin, the leather cushion comfortable enough. Jackson had already shaved the area he was working on (weird, by the way), and transferred the image of what was going to be his new tattoo.

Mickey liked it, a lot. Jackson was one hell of an artist and he just felt really comfortable with being in his hands for this. He never thought he’d get something like that tattooed on his body, but after Jackson explained it, it made sense. It kind of hit him right in the gut; almost got unnecessarily emotional over it.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second, listening to Jackson tinker around next to him on his little rolling table. Then he glanced over, watching latex gloved hands curl around bottles of ink, and move different things he needed. Mickey never had a _professional_ tattoo done before. And that final nail was starting to sink down further into the coffin. His eyes stung a little bit, but he held it back.

“You ready?” Jackson’s face hovered above him. He’d taken his beanie off. Dark brown hair, _so much of it_ , with a little curl, falling all over the place. “Gonna take a while.”

Mickey took a moment before he nodded. It needed to be done. He was ready. “I can take it,” he finally said. He’d had worse shit done to him.

It did hurt —like a _fucking_ bitch. Mickey stared up at the ceiling of the shop, trying to separate himself from the needles stabbing into his skin over and over again, filling up the wounds with ink. It felt like a continuous line of bees were stinging him; he took slow breaths, grateful for the short little breaks here and there when Jackson went over to his table for more ink.

“Gonna look so badass,” Jackson murmured. “Look real good with your knuckles.”

Mickey kept silent for a minute, but looked up at the other man. He couldn’t help it, he smirked, “Yeah?”

Jackson nodded, “Definitely.”

“How long you been doing this?” Mickey asked, trying to distract himself from the different forms of pain he was feeling.

“Going on six years,” Jackson replied. “But I apprenticed for a year and a half first –so I guess you can say seven and a half years –ish.”

“S’cool,” Mickey breathed. “Just fell into it or…”

He nodded, “Yeah. Got stupid and angry for a while after high school, got my ass thrown away for a year… got out and woke the fuck up. Ended up doing this.”

“You always been South Side?” Mickey asked, wincing when Jackson hit a sensitive patch of skin.

Jackson nodded, “Born and raised. Coulda gone North Side, but… you know.”

Mickey grinned through another wince, “Yeah, I know.”

Jackson drew away the tattoo machine and looked down at his work so far, his eyes flicking over to Mickey’s face for a minute. Mickey stared back at him, taking a deep breath, before looking away.

Then Jackson’s hands were back on Mickey’s chest, the needles back to stabbing into him, “So uh… girl or guy?”

Mickey frowned, looking up at him, “Huh?”

“Ian,” Jackson clarified. Mickey’s stomach dropped and curled. “Girl Ian or guy Ian?”

His mouth went dry. Felt sick. God, he hadn’t talked about him in so long, hadn’t heard that name out loud in so fucking long —Svetlana and Yev never talked about him around Mickey, no one did (which was weird and frustrating in and of itself; he hated the eggshells people walked on around him when it came to his ex). 

“Uh… guy,” he replied softly.

Another few minutes of silence passed by. Mickey clenched his jaw tight, an anxious tightness cutting into his throat; maybe he should have lied.

“Delia says it’d be bad form to hit on you while I’m tattooing over your ex’s name. Told me not to be a fuckboy,” Jackson finally murmured, concentrating on a particular line that made Mickey’s brows scrunch together. “And Delia makes the rules.”

Oh. Okay. It was such a surreal thing to hear; Mickey opened and closed his mouth a couple times, trying to pull something out, _anything_. But he had no response lined up, so he was left kind of just _staring_ at the guy.

“I’m not though,” Jackson added. “A fuckboy, that is. Just putting that out there. Although now that I say that, I think that’s what all fuckboys say, huh?”

“Jackson,” Delia’s voice called over from the front desk, distracted. “Don’t put your foot in your mouth.”

Both Mickey and Jackson looked over at Delia, who was looking through and writing things down in a large book. “Yes ma’am,” Jackson said.

It was quiet for a while after that. Mickey kept staring up at the ceiling, the corner of his mouth threatening to pull upwards into a grin. It had been a long time. After he got out of prison, he’d gone to a few clubs, fucked around in bathrooms and alleys, got that shit out of his system.

But it had just been a long time since someone had talked to him like _that._ Or looked at him like _that_ –this pure, open and honest interest. He forgot how it made him feel; it was nice, actually. And maybe he shouldn’t cling onto that feeling from the first guy outside of a club since he got out of prison. But it just felt _good_ , and it felt weirdly _right_ … so maybe it was okay.

And he didn’t know what he was thinking, it hardly seemed like the appropriate time to be saying shit like, “It’s been nine years since we broke up,” but he said it anyways. “Haven’t seen him since. But still, it’s been… almost a decade.”

“That’s a long time to have to carry around his name,” Jackson pointed out.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed.

“First love?”

Mickey nodded. His eyes were stinging again; blurred images of memories from so fucking long ago —the good ones, anyway. Red hair. Long limbs. Goofy laugh. God, it seemed like a different life. A different timeline all together.

Jackson hummed in response as he kept working; Mickey watched the way his dark brows drew together in concentration, his tongue poking out between his lips. “In high school, my first love was this girl Katie. Got together Freshman year, stayed together until graduation.”

Full stop for a second. Wait. Mickey honestly tried not to pull a face, but when Jackson said _girl_ and _Katie_ , it was hard not to. Not just ten minutes ago, the guy was saying how he wasn’t going to hit on him, but made it decently clear that he  _wanted_ to —right? Maybe it had been too long, maybe he imagined it. Fuck, that’s embarrassing.

But Jackson just grinned when he saw Mickey’s face, going back for more ink for a second, “Switch-hitter, man.” Mickey snorted a little laugh; alright. “Anyway… she got into a car after this party, after graduation —I guess she was wasted. Driver was drunk too.”

“Shit,” Mickey sighed. He couldn’t even imagine going through that. Him and Ian broke up, but having someone fucking ripped away like that —having them  _die_? Fuck. That would have killed Mickey (would’ve killed him even if something happened to him _now_ ). He didn’t even want to think about it.

“Yeah,” Jackson nodded; didn’t need to finish his story. “So… I got angry and stupid. First loves, man. They’re the whole fucking world.”

“Sorry,” Mickey said —a lame attempt to comfort.

But Jackson gave him a half smile, a little shrug, “It was a long time ago. When you lose someone that important —breakup or otherwise— it fucking hurts worse than anything. But then you gotta, you know…”

“Live,” Mickey breathed.

Jackson nodded, “Gotta live.”

And then they were quiet again, but it was comfortable, and Mickey managed to relax and close his eyes while Jackson kept working. The piece was kind of large, he supposed. It didn’t make sense to Mickey to just get a little thing over the other one —might as well make it something worth pain and money to have it done.

Then he started to _really_ think about what he was doing.

That nail had all but wedged itself into the coffin, sealing it up. It was a lot to take in, a lot to process. Jackson was right —Ian had been his whole fucking  _world_ , and everything in it. He loved him so much, and when it had ended, it fucked him up pretty bad. Bad enough to score some shit in prison to get high, make a dumb move with a dirty needle (thank _god_ nothing serious was on it, just enough bacteria to give him a really gross infection; the infirmary threw him some hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin) and then be left with it for the next nine years.

 _This_ was it. _This_ was how it all wrapped up. It almost seemed pointless, even though Mickey knew that wasn’t _really_ all that true. Ian helped him grow —even when he didn’t want to, when he wanted to hide and was too scared. Ian gave him that push. And yeah, however fucked up it had been, however fucked up  _they_ had been, he was thankful for that.

Fuck, they’d been through _so_ fucking much and things got _so_ fucking bad… but it wasn’t pointless. Mickey grew. Mickey _loved_ —he loved harder than he knew possible, let himself _breathe_. 

And though it didn’t work out… though he was still feeling those last bits of anger about what happened (mainly because spending nine years stewing about it will do that to a person), he knew that it wasn’t _pointless_. Deep down, he knew that without Ian in his life, he probably would have still been that angry, scared-to-death boy, hiding from the whole fucking world. 

But right now… wrapped up in the moment of having _Ian’s_ name covered up… it just seemed a _little_ pointless. Just a little. Mickey fought nearly the whole way, punching and biting and scratching, being terrible sometimes, but he eventually gave Ian all of himself, gave him _everything_ and then… it just… _ended._ Right when they were making a life, right when they were getting started. So in this moment, it seemed utterly and completely pointless.And it hurt worse than those tiny needles stabbing into him —hurt worse than getting pistol-whipped or shot. It hurt _so_ incredibly bad, right in that moment.

Mickey brought his right hand up and covered his eyes; Jackson was hitting a sensitive part again, and he was getting a little overwhelmed by what all was happening. He pressed his hand into his eyes more, telling himself to stop. He couldn’t fucking do this here. It’s been _nine_ fucking _years_. Nine. It was time.

“You need a smoke?” Jackson’s voice was soft, like he saw what was really going on with Mickey. “Take a minute?”

He wanted to say no, but he ended up nodding, “Yeah… yeah, I just need a minute.”

“I’m gonna cover this so you can put a jacket on, okay?”

Mickey nodded again, taking a deep breath, moving his hand off of his eyes, but not looking over at Jackson. He didn’t know what he looked like right now, but he knew that he didn’t want to see Jackson looking at how red his eyes probably were.

Jackson taped some gauss over Mickey’s tattoo, keeping it loose, then helped him up, helped him into his jacket —even zipped it up for him, which made Mickey breathe a little laugh.

“You want company out there?” Jackson asked.

Mickey chewed on his lip, then nodded, “Sure.”

They lit up again after they stepped outside. Mickey’s chest was throbbing a little bit, his eyes burning a little too. But after a few deep breaths, and a few pulls from his cigarette, he was feeling a little better. A lot better, actually.

After their second cigarette, and after Mickey’s shoulders had relaxed, Jackson looked over at him, gave him a slow grin but still stayed quiet. Mickey managed to grin back, felt okay doing so.

The guy was kind of charming as fuck, to Mickey. There was just something about him. He had a _fuck you_ face, defiant but not hard. Just… a _fuck you_ face. Mickey liked that, he liked that a lot.

“So what do you do?” Jackson finally spoke.

“You know The Alibi Room?” Mickey asked. Jackson nodded. “I bartend over there.”

“Hm,” Jackson hummed, leaning against the wall next to Mickey, like he had before, facing him. “That makes things difficult.”

Mickey arched a brow at him, “Makes what difficult?”

“Well… I was gonna ask you if you wanted to get a drink with me some time. But you work at a bar,” Jackson explained.

Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up, smile threatening his lips, “That right?”

The other man nodded, “That’s right.”

He wet his lips and tried to calm his smile, but it wasn’t happening. He felt that long-forgotten bubble in his belly, a rush of something obnoxious and giddy, “I dunno if you want all this fucking baggage, man. You’re at the tip of the iceberg right now.”

“Why don’t you let me decide that,” Jackson countered, eyes flicking up and down his body. “Don’t gotta be a big deal, I just kind of want to get to know you a little bit, you know? If that’s okay.”

Mickey stared down at the sidewalk and breathed a laugh, chewing on his bottom lip; he could feel Jackson’s eyes on him still, just watching him like it really was _no big deal_. 

“How about… you come in next week, and I’ll touch-up your knuckles,” he said. “Instead of doing all that shit today. How’s that sound?”

Mickey nodded, gave a little shrug, “That’s cool. I can do that.”

“Good,” Mickey could hear the smile in Jackson’s voice. “ _Then_ you can come in a week after that and I’ll check on your tattoo.”

Mickey looked over at Jackson, brows arched, “Is that normal protocol?”

“Not at all,” he said not even a beat after.

“Hm,” Mickey smiled tight, holding in a laugh. This guy. He was still just _watching_ him, waiting for him to say something, so fucking patient. “Thought you weren’t supposed to hit on me —thought it was bad form?”

“Tell me to back off, and I will,” Jackson shrugged. “You can tell me to stop. I’ll respect that.”

Jesus. Mickey rubbed at his mouth, took one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it on the sidewalk and stomping it out. He had a feeling that he was only seeing the tip of the iceberg with Jackson too –he was kind of a handful, but at the same time kind of laid back, kind of chill. Mickey liked that. Barely knew anything about the guy, but he liked him anyways. 

There was just something there, drawing him in –Jackson was casting these lines, patiently fishing, and Mickey… Mickey saw _exactly_ what he was doing and was so utterly charmed by it, and so completely willing to bite. 

This was okay, right? Yeah. Yeah, this was okay. It had been nine years. It was okay. And part of him screamed _no_ , not wanting to get hurt again, not wanting to go through that again. But it didn’t have to be a big deal, like Jackson said. He  _just_ met the fucking guy, it didn’t have to be _anything_. It was okay.

“Let’s get this shit over with, Romeo,” Mickey rolled his eyes. It was okay.

Jackson gave another one of those impossibly wide smiles, tossing his cigarette into the parking lot, and then followed Mickey back inside.

 

* * *

 

“You ready?”

Mickey took a deep breath, scratching the back of his neck. Kind of too late to back out now, wasn’t it? Jackson had been working on his tattoo for over an hour since their smoke break. And Mickey was feeling a little jittery —probably could do with some juice or something, get his blood sugar up a little bit before he got woozy.

He followed Jackson to the full length mirror at the back of the shop, pausing before he stepped in front of it to see the work. This was it. He took a couple steps, then raised his eyes to look at his chest, feeling his stomach drop at the sight.

Wow.

When Jackson first brought him the drawing, he thought it was good, but now… seeing it inked into his skin… shit. It was kind of perfect. Jackson had explained to him about the symbolism of snakes. Shedding of skin, rebirth, starting over. About how it’s letting go of his old ways, his old life, to start over again.

And the rose that the snake was curled under and around… Mickey never thought in a million fucking years he’d get a fucking _flower_ tattooed onto his body. But it was a nice touch. It worked. He couldn’t imagine the tattoo without it.

It _was_ badass. 

He didn’t know what to say, looking at Jackson through the mirror. Ian’s name was gone, couldn’t even tell that it was there, not really. There was a touch of discoloration in one of the flower petals, but you had to really be looking for it, to see it.

Mickey swallowed hard, looking back at the tattoo; blinked a couple times. Fuck. Nine years and you’d think he’d be able to just _deal_ with this shit. Prison fucked up his sense of time, fucked with his already poor coping skills, leaving him to think and think and _think_ about his last moments with Ian Gallagher. And after all that… this was it. This was how it all wrapped up. 

End of that chapter, onto the next.

“Looks good on you,” Jackson said —had that soft voice again, like he _knew_. Like he could _see_. He probably could, Mickey wasn’t exactly doing a great job at hiding it.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s awesome, man. Did good work.”

Jackson came up behind Mickey, looking at him through the mirror, over his shoulder. They were pretty much the same height, maybe Jackson was an inch taller. Maybe. The other man didn’t touch him at all; Mickey saw him slip his hands into his own pockets, giving him a single nod.

“You get to live now,” Jackson said. “New start, new skin.”

Mickey nodded. Yeah. Yeah, he got to live now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jackson FC: Xavier Dolan (found out yesterday that he is 5'7" also and I'm real excited about it lol)
> 
> [Mickey with his new tattoo](http://i.imgur.com/wogjIDd.png) [had to use a shot of Mickey when he was drunk on his guitar; only angle that worked]
> 
>  **[Probably unneeded explanation time, but I’m gonna tackle this before any shit can hit any fans:** There’s literally no deeper meaning behind Jackson being the tattoo artist to cover up Ian’s name, other than this is his job lmao; I’m not sitting here writing this like muahahaha Jackson is erasing Ian forever!! That is not happening. **Promise.]**


	3. Maple Syrup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my editing on this was quick.

Mickey got to the tattoo shop early, like Jackson told him to, so he could touch up his knuckles before his first appointment. Mickey’s shift at The Alibi didn’t even start until later in the day, so it wasn’t like he had fuck-all to do anyways. And okay… he wanted to see Jackson again. Whatever.

He knocked on the front door of the shop, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them warm, and because his chest was itching again —and if he didn’t put his hands in his pockets, it was likely he’d scratch it. Jackson unlocked and opened the door, wide smile set in place, eyes a little sleepy though.

“Hey,” he said, moving so Mickey could step inside the shop. He locked the door after closing it back up. “Fucking cold out there.”

Mickey nodded, looking around the empty shop, “No one’s here yet?”

Jackson breathed a laugh, shoulder brushing against Mickey’s as he walked past, leading the way to his station, “Nope.”

Mickey hummed, following him, taking his hands out of his pockets, “You always come in this early?”

“Only if I have a good reason,” Jackson replied, sitting down on his little roller chair, grinning up at Mickey. He patted the seat of what looked like a dentist chair next to him and rolled his little table over, already having it set up.

Mickey sat down, leaning back against the chair and watched Jackson as he got his gloves on, and did his thing. He liked watching his hands work, moving around as if in instinct, knowing where things were without having to look.

“How’s the tattoo?” Jackson asked.

Mickey smirked, “Itches like a bitch.”

The other man grinned, “Started peeling, right?”

“Little bit,” Mickey nodded. “Been hard not to scratch it.”

Jackson gave him a look, “Better not fucking scratch it. I’ll kick your ass, man.”

Mickey chuckled, “Yeah, you really think you can take me?”

“I think I could take you,” Jackson gave him a filthy smirk and one of those once-overs with his dark eyes.

Mickey shook his head. Fucking flirt. “We ready to do this, or are you gonna sit around and try to get in my pants all morning?”

“I told you,” Jackson smiled, taking Mickey’s right hand in his own, his fingers seeking out his little finger, starting with the F. He wet his lips and looked up at Mickey while he grabbed his tattoo machine. “All you gotta do is tell me to stop, and I’ll back off.”

He chewed on his bottom lip, watching one of Jackson’s dark brows arch, a playful challenge. “And I told you, tip of the iceberg.”

“You wanna sit around and tell each other what we already told each other?”

Mickey laughed, shaking his head, “Shut the fuck up.”

Jackson grinned back at him, “Alright, lemme get this done so we can go get breakfast.”

“Wait…” Mickey frowned, still aware that at this point, they were just sitting there, Jackson holding his hand. “I thought you had an appointment this morning?”

Jackson flipped his tattoo machine on and pushed his bottom lip out a little, giving Mickey an innocent little shrug, “Shop doesn't open for another two hours.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Jackson paused, taking a sip of his coffee. “People like your new ink?”

After Jackson was finished with touching up Mickey’s knuckles, they went a couple doors down to this dinky little diner that knew the tattoo artist by name. They sat in this little two-person booth by the window; the waitress brought over mugs and a kettle of coffee for them. 

His knuckles were a touch swollen and pink, and were tender, but not terribly so. The touch-up looked really good, and Jackson even cleaned up some of the lines in the uneven parts. They looked damn good now, actually.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, everyone loves it.”

“Nice,” Jackson smiled wide.

Mickey didn’t know how to broach the subject of by everyone he mainly meant Yev (and Kev and Vee too, but he had his son in his mind first). He never had to explain his situation before. It was so complicated, and there was a lot going on, and on the outside it probably didn’t look like something someone wanted to get involved with. Tip of the iceberg.

“You ever gonna get any more, or are you done for now?”

Mickey gave a little shrug, “I dunno. I don’t exactly have the best judgement.”

Jackson snorted a laugh, resting his elbows on the table, leaning forward a little bit. Mickey realized it was the first time he’d seen the guy without long sleeves on, and he had tattoos on both forearms. One a skull and snake, and the other…

Mickey tilted his head, looking closer at the tattoo, “Do you have _Gandalf_ on your fucking arm?”

“No,” Jackson’s cheeks went a little pink as he looked down at the black and gray portrait. It was a really well done. “It’s Dumbledore.”

“Oh fuck,” Mickey punched out a laugh, he couldn't help it. He couldn't remember the last time he burst out laughing like that. “Oh my god, you’re a fucking nerd, aren’t you?”

Jackson nodded, his _fuck you_ face set in a proud smirk, “Damn straight.” He lifted his other arm, motioning to the skull and snake tattoo, “Got Dumbledore, and got a Dark Mark.”

Mickey didn’t know much about all that shit, but Jackson was into it and he was really proud of his tattoos (they were fucking nice, that Dark Mark thing was badass, to be completely honest). Mickey liked that. It was kind of really endearing and he respected the fuck out of the fact that Jackson made no bones about it —he had Harry Potter tattoos, so the fuck what.

He let his eyes linger on the tattoo artist for a bit, taking in the sight of him, wondering what other ink he had. There were a couple others on the insides of his forearms, kind of odd, artistic looking pieces. Everything that Mickey could see was in black and gray; looked nice against his skin.

Then Jackson caught him staring, giving him a little grin, “You gonna come in next week so I can take a look at your tattoo?”

Mickey breathed a laugh, “I guess. What, are you just gonna _look_ at it?”

“I’m very dedicated to my job,” he countered.

“Oh,” Mickey dragged the word out, nodding in understanding, playing along. “So you ask _all_ the people you tattoo to come back so you can check up on them.”

“Well,” Jackson hedged, rolling his eyes, “I mean…”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, brows raising, refusing to help the guy out.

“You’re kind of a ball-buster, huh?” Jackson laughed, hand reaching over, ghosting his fingers across the back of Mickey’s wrist for a second.

“Little bit,” Mickey nodded, failing at keeping his smile in check.

“I like that,” Jackson shrugged.

The waitress came back over, took their order —Jackson got pancakes and sausage, and Mickey ended up getting the same thing. The conversation was pretty light, not really talking about anything personal, just filling in the space between ordering and receiving their food with bullshit about movies and tv shows that they were into.

Mickey liked Jackson’s warm laugh, and the way he leaned forward a bit if Mickey was talking, or stretched his legs out under the table, apologizing when he accidentally bumped his leg against Mickey’s. (Mickey didn't really understand why he stretched his legs out so much, they were the same fucking height and Mickey was just fine).

Then when their food came, he rolled his eyes at Jackson when he dipped each bite of pancake into the little syrup cup, while Mickey drenched practically his whole plate in the stuff —Jackson rolled his eyes back at him. 

After breakfast, Jackson asks to see Mickey’s phone, and after a moment, he slides it over. He watches carefully as Jackson picks the phone up and types away at something before sliding it back across the table. Mickey breathes a small laugh and nods, seeing the other man’s phone number saved to his phone.

**_Smooth_** , Mickey texts to Jackson.

Jackson grins wide when his phone beeps, and he picks it up. He types something and Mickey rolls his eyes when his own phone beeps in response. It says, **_I’m just getting started._**

Mickey flicks him off. Jackson laughs.

 

* * *

 

Mickey spends an inordinate amount of time on the fire escape at night. Sometimes his room just feels so damn small, like the walls are going to cave in and swallow him up. It’s winter, freezing, but he sits out there with his little flask of whiskey and pack of cigarettes, only taking little sips when he needs a little more warmth —he doesn't have the same tolerance he used to, all but a lightweight now (for a Milkovich at least, which in the grand scheme of things… is still a high tolerance for alcohol).

He doesn’t think. Just sits and stares outinto the street, listening to the usual South Side background noises —sounds that since nine years ago have died down a little. There’s not so much yelling late at night. Not a lot of tires screeching or static pops of gunfire. But it’s better than silence being interrupted by the occasional angry, belligerent yelling or beating on metal bars, or slapping of flesh. It’s softer, so he likes it.

There’s a flower shop across from The Alibi’s building now. A fucking flower shop. Mickey smokes and stares at it, blowing out clouds of smoke, eyes narrowed. It's got yellow lettering painted on the front window, bright and happy -a neon OPEN sign that's been shut off for hours. So much has changed, and sometimes it feels like he’ll never get used to it.

The window creaks as it’s slid open. Mickey watches Yev climb out, bundled up in a coat and pajama pants; he’s holding a piece of paper, hands it to Mickey. So he takes it, using what little light is coming out of the window that Yev is hanging out of, looking over the numbers and his sons scribbled handwriting.

“Look at number five again,” Mickey says, handing the paper back. “And number seven. The rest is good.”

Yev huffs, and that makes Mickey smirk. “Hate math,” he mumbled, climbing back inside the apartment, closing the window behind him.

Mickey does that now. He checks math homework.

His phone beeps in his pocket, and immediately his stomach drops a little; he almost hates that it does that, like a lovesick little shit with a crush. Of course, it’s exactly who he hoped it would be.

**_Were you planning on coming in tomorrow morning so I can check your ink?_** Jackson texted him.

Mickey grins lopsidedly. **_I can. Wouldn’t it be easier if I took a pic of it and send it to you?_**

Not even thirty seconds later, **_Nope._ _Gotta see it in person._**

He laughs, glad there’s no one with him on the fire escape. **_Fine. Same time?_** he texts back.

**_Same time_** , pops back up a few seconds later.

Mickey blows smoke out through his nose and scrolls up through the past weeks worth of texts from Jackson. He smirks at a few of them: **_Some juice head came into the shop for a fucking tribal arm-band… kill me_** ; **_Are you going around SS telling people I got Gandalf tattooed on my arm? Second time this week someone asked me if it was_** ; and the one that made Mickey feel a bubble in his chest, **_Thanks for having breakfast with me btw, maybe we can do that again next week?_**

Maybe it was a little fast, but he really liked the guy (he was trying to keep a little bit of a barrier, but he still really liked him). Had only known him for two weeks, mostly trading texts, but still he really just felt this pull towards him. 

Mickey hadn’t told anyone about him, didn’t really plan on it either, not right now. Besides the whole announcing that he was interested in some guy thing was really fucking weird to him. It wasn’t anyone’s business, right —whoever he was talking to, or hanging out with. Unless it was serious, it wasn’t anyone’s business. And like Jackson had said, it didn’t have to be a big deal. It didn’t have to be anything. Just talking, and breakfast, and texting… whatever.

The window creaked back open, Yev popping back out to hand Mickey his homework again, “I think I got it. Mom said don’t get pneumonia, we don’t got good health insurance.”

“ _Have_ ,” Mickey corrected. He looked down at the page, redoing the problems in his head really quick; he nodded, handing the paper back to him, “Good. Shower and bed.”

“Thanks… night, dad,” Yev said, waiting for Mickey to look back over at him to give him a smile.

Mickey gave him a little one back, “Yeah… night.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey took a deep breath as he got out of his car and headed towards the shop; the door swung open for him before he even knocked, thankfully. Jackson grinned at him, but came outside, locking the door behind him; he nodded towards the direction of the diner.

“Breakfast first?” he asked Mickey. “I’m starving.”

Mickey shrugged, “Sure.”

They sat at the same booth as before, accepting the kettle of coffee that the waitress brought over —ordering pancakes and sausage again, this time Jackson got a couple fried eggs on the side. The waitress was cute, and young, and had long blonde hair. She smiled at Jackson, and he smiled back at her. And Mickey couldn't stop himself from chewing on his lip, because he’d forgotten about _that_.

The conversation was light again, nothing personal, nothing beyond South Side bullshit or what they did this past week. The waitress came back at some point and set their plates in front of them, giving Jackson another smile, which he returned. It could have been completely innocent, couldn’t have meant anything; Mickey knew he didn’t have a fucking leg to stand on to get jealous over it, but it was creeping up the back of his neck.

He hadn’t spoken before thinking in a long time, but when the waitress left again, the question, “So, you’re bi?” just came out before Mickey could force himself not to try to get reconfirmation.  Immediately he rubbed at his mouth and sighed, wanting to punch himself. Or the wall. Or the fucking table, anything really.

Jackson paused, a dark brow raising as he finished his first bite of pancake, “Yeah.”

Mickey nodded, looking down at his plate as he smothered everything in syrup, feeling less hungry than before. Couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut, could he? Fuck.

“That bothers you,” it wasn’t a question.

Mickey pulled a face, looking back up at Jackson, knee-jerk instinct taking the wheel, “The fuck do I care who you bang?”

“I dunno,” Jackson shrugged. “Why do you? Does it matter?”

No? Mickey wasn’t one to talk shit on anyone, he’d fucked plenty of girls in the past. But that was different. He didn’t like it, he did it to survive —Jackson liked it. He _liked_ women as well as men. And like… Jackson was a cool guy, and maybe it was Mickey’s head trying to protect himself from getting too attached or something.

“You wanna have a serious conversation right now?” Jackson asked him, eyes honest, genuinely asking him the question, not being a dick.

Mickey shrugged it off with a breathy laugh, “I don’t care if you fuck girls, man. Not my business. Shouldn’t’ve brought it up.”

“I’d kinda like it to be your business though,” Jackson said, leaning forward a little bit. “I like you, simple as that —it’s been really obvious though, let’s be honest.”

“You don’t even know me,” Mickey said. He felt his insides start to build up those walls, and it scared him because while the walls were trying to climb, this other part of him was screaming for them to stop.

“Then tell me something,” Jackson shrugged.

The words wouldn't come out. There were too many and they were all hiding at the back of Mickey’s throat, not wanting to spill. He hated it, felt like he’d crawled back into the old scared, destructive Mickey Milkovich carcass.

He lifted his shoulders, pulling out the simplest words he could, “I have two older brothers, and a younger sister.”

“Cool,” Jackson said. “I’m an only child. What are their names?”

“Uh, there’s Colin and Iggy —my brothers. And Mandy is my sister,” Mickey said. He sighed, stabbing at his pancakes with his fork, “Mandy moved away a long time ago. She sent me a handful of letters when I was in lock-up.”

“Were you close with her?”

Mickey shrugged it off, “Weren’t that kind of family. We looked out for each other, had each others backs, no fucking questions asked. But we didn’t really hang out or shit like that.”

Jackson put his hand down on the table right next to Mickey’s, his thumb idly ghosting over the back of his wrist again; it felt nice, and was oddly intimate. He didn’t move his hand closer, or further away, just stayed where he was. He took a deep breath, eyes moving from looking at their hands, to Jackson’s face. The other man was watching him again, dark eyes endless —patient and waiting.

“It don’t think it bothers me,” Mickey forced out, rubbing at the corner of his mouth. “I mean… I used to fuck girls all the time back in the day, but that was for…”

“For cover,” Jackson nodded, understanding. 

Mickey took a minute to look at the other man, taking a deep breath, “I don’t give a shit who you like to bang, man, I just…” he trailed off, not knowing how to say what he needed to say.

“How is everything?” The waitress came back up to the table, beaming at them, cutting off whatever Mickey would have maybe said.

 

* * *

 

He thought maybe he ruined everything. The rest of breakfast had been kind of quiet, and Jackson seemed to fidget a little in his seat. Mickey almost just went home afterwards, instead of following the other man into the tattoo shop. But he didn’t because Jackson looked back at him with this little hopeful glint in his eye while he unlocked the shop’s door. So he followed. 

“We open up in like an hour,” Jackson said, leading Mickey to his station. 

Mickey nodded, shrugging his jacket off, setting it on the table, “Busy day?”

“Eh, got a couple appointments,” Jackson shrugged as he looked through the drawers of his station. “It’ll be busier tomorrow… start of the weekend, you know?”

He watched Jackson dig through a deep bottom drawer while he tugged his shirt off over his head, hoping that he wasn’t making an ass of himself while doing so —but the tattoo was on his chest, and Jackson wanted to see it so… (he was starting to overthink, was starting to get lost in his own head).

Mickey swallowed hard when Jackson stood in front of him, a container in his hand. His dark eyes flitted over Mickey’s chest, the corner of his mouth pulling up a little in a half grin. Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up, watching the other man open the container and dip his fingers into the lotion.

God, he really couldn't go _there_ right now. Jackson had nice hands, and Mickey had a hard time looking away from them, had a hard time keeping his mind off questions like _what would those hands feel like gripping onto his hips_.

Jackson set the container aside and started gently rubbing the lotion onto Mickey’s new tattoo. It was all but healed already —Mickey was a pretty fast healer, and it had all but finished peeling. There was honestly no need for the lotion, but Mickey wasn’t about to point that out.

He knew he was staring at Jackson’s mouth, his jaw, his throat. They were so close, and Jackson was gentle and slow with rubbing the lotion into his skin. He took his time, going back for more, his breath softly spilling across Mickey’s skin. Fuck, he was so close.

Then very quietly, Jackson said, “When I’m with someone… I’m with _them_. Only them.”

Mickey stayed quiet, now staring at Jackson’s shoulder. He didn’t have to ask what Jackson meant, didn’t have to ask why he said that. His whole body felt warm and he had this urge to do something or say something, but he couldn't really figure out what those things were. Just… _something_. 

His mind is blank when it should be working, but he just can’t; he opens his mouth and the words, “I have a kid,” come out, soft and hesitant. “M’living with my wife and my kid right now because I couldn't go back home.”

Jackson pauses, catching Mickey’s eyes, “You’re married?”

“It’s not like that. We got different rooms and…” Mickey clears his throat. “Listen, I didn’t want… I didn’t have a fucking _choice_ , okay? And then I got locked up, and…”

“Okay,” Jackson nods, understanding in his eyes. His eyes are dark and endless and Mickey feels like he’s about to fall in. “You don’t have to talk about that now if you don’t want to.”

Mickey nodded, somewhat grateful. Such an odd conversation anyways.

“How old’s your kid?”

“He’s ten,” Mickey says.

It’s quiet for a long time. They’re just standing there staring at each other, barely a foot apart. Mickey wants to say something else, but he just doesn’t know what —again. 

Jackson grins —wide, slow, it lights up his whole face, makes his eyes squint a little. Mickey feels hands curl gently around his forearms, just under his elbows; Jackson’s skin is warm, and Mickey feels his stomach do that fucking annoying flutter thing.

“I really like you,” Jackson tells him. “A lot.”

Mickey likes him too. A lot. His lips part, trying to say that, but it doesn’t make it out. He can’t stop looking everywhere on Jackson’s face, can’t stop looking at his mouth. He has a nice mouth. Mickey hasn’t kissed anyone since… well, it’s been a long time.

“This okay?” Jackson asks, his hands sliding down Mickey’s arms to hold both of his hands. Mickey swallows, letting the other man thread his fingers between his.

A quick, dirty, thought races over Mickey’s mind _be better if you were fucking me_ , but he pushes that down. Instead he breathes a little laugh, trying to ease the tension in his back. “You wanna stand here and hold my hand?”

“Not really,” Jackson’s eyes flick down to Mickey’s mouth.

And then Mickey’s mouth is pressing against Jackson’s. Breathing him in, moving slow and soft; Jackson melts against him instantly, hands moving from Mickey’s, to holding the sides of his face. Mickey feels something inside of him lift, like a bubble of light that started from his belly and working his way to his chest. He’s warm, Jackson is warm. His taste is of faded maple syrup and coffee; his scruff scratches Mickey’s chin and nose. 

Mickey bites back a disappointed grunt when Jackson gently breaks the kiss. He could have done that for hours. Days. Years. He’s breathing so hard, and his hands are curling around Jackson’s hips, and absolutely no thought is running through his mind, it’s wonderful.

They look at each other for a moment, noses brushing against each other, Jackson still holding Mickey’s face. Then Jackson kisses him again, smiling against his mouth. Mickey smiles too. He likes this a lot. _This is okay_ , a soft thought floats up in the back of Mickey’s mind. He agrees. This is _absolutely_ o-fucking-kay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I really need to focus on my big bang, but I wanted to finish this chapter and post it tonight. So. 
> 
> YAY KISSES XXXX
> 
> (also [jackson's tattoos](https://www.instagram.com/p/BAL3pqIBBlM/?taken-by=xavierdolan) that xavier dolan actually has and is half the reason he is the fc for jackson lmao -i love them so much)


	4. Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys, I love them so much.

Mickey grabbed bottles of beer from the case, shoving them into the tub of ice behind the bar. It was some obscure brand that he’d never heard of before working at The Alibi. Beer was beer, or so he thought. Then these people come in, clean up his hometown, and start asking from microbreweries that no one’s ever fucking heard of. Fucking ridiculous.

He stopped for a second to look down at his hand, the letters tattooed to his knuckles cleaned up, actually decent looking. Jackson did a good job. And shit, Mickey had a hard time believing that he let himself just let go and kiss him like that. His lips didn’t tingle from the memory or anything like that, but the thought of it made his stomach get all tight, made his chest feel like there was a bubble forming there, all light and floaty.

“What’s got you all smiley?”

Mickey felt his face heat up, but he scowled over at Vee, and kept putting beers in the ice, “The fuck you talking about?”

Vee rolled her eyes, counting through the wad of cash in her hand, but she smirked at him, “I see you over there smiling to yourself.”

Mickey shook his head, grabbing the next case of beer, “Yeah, I was remembering that you leave in ten minutes.”

“Asshole,” Vee reached over, swatting at his shoulder. 

He laughed, raising his middle finger at her while continuing to work. “Actually, before you leave, it cool if I take a quick smoke break?”

“Go ahead,” Vee sighed. “Slow right now anyways. But you know you can smoke in here, right?”

It was always "slow" anytime before five. Mickey nodded, grabbing the empty boxes and taking them with him out to the back. He called behind him, “Wanna go outside.”

He tossed the cardboard boxes into the dumpster by the back door and leaned against the brick wall, lighting up a cigarette. The cold air bit viciously into his skin —he hadn’t grabbed a jacket on the way— but he stuck it out.

His phone buzzed in his pocket; he answered, fighting his grin back when he saw who was calling. God, he felt like such an idiot.

“Hey,” he greeted.

Jackson’s warm voice answered him, “What time do you get off?”

Mickey snorted a laugh, “Haven’t really made a habit of checking the time when I got my hand down my pants.”

“You know what I meant,” Jackson laughed. “What time do you get off work?”

Mickey pulled from his cigarette, moving from foot to foot to stay warm, even though his body was warming up on it’s own. “Six,” he said.

“You like deep dish?”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, forcing his mind from further innuendoes. “Yeah.”

“There’s this place a few blocks from the shop,” Mickey could hear Jackson’s grin in his voice. “You wanna go? My treat.”

Mickey wet his lips, at this point unaffected by the cold at all, glad that this conversation wasn’t happening in person because he was pretty sure that his face was all kinds of pink. He looked up and down the back alley, not knowing what he was looking for, but looking for something. “What, you mean like a fucking date?”

Jackson breathed a laugh, “Uh, yeah… like a date. If you’re into it.”

Mickey smiled, pulled on his cigarette once more, before he nodded, “A’ight.”

“Cool,” Jackson said, voice quiet. “You wanna meet me at the shop after you get off of work?”

“Shit,” Mickey leaned back against the brick building, remembering the car situation today. “I don’t have the car tonight —Svet, uh my… someone’s using it.”

Mickey suspected that she was taking Yev to go have dinner with Ian. She’d been really weird and evasive about her reason for taking it, even though Mickey never pressed her for why. Walking on eggshells again; he still hated it.

He knew that they got together sometimes, and he still didn’t really have an opinion on that either way. _Sometimes_ it annoyed him though, having Ian still in his kid’s life even though they weren’t together anymore. But Ian had loved that kid long before Mickey ever gave a shit about him, so on the other hand, he really didn’t feel like he had much room to talk. Ian was, whether Mickey liked it or not, kind of Yev’s dad as well. And at this point, Mickey’d feel like a real prick for stepping in and saying to either one of them  _no, you’re not seeing him anymore_.

“I can pick you up,” Jackson offered.

Mickey paused, chewing on his lip, staring down at the cigarette clutched between his C and K fingers. There was this weight in his belly, a hundred thoughts flickering through his mind. Weeks ago, he was banging some guy in the bathroom of a club. Six months ago, he was… he was _somewhere_ and _someone_ he left behind.

“Mick?”

That pulled him out of his thought abruptly, he shook his head, correcting him before he could stop himself, “ _Mickey_.”

“Sorry,” Jackson said softly. “Listen, if you don’t wanna go out, that’s cool… don’t have to do shit you don’t wanna.”

“I want to,” Mickey cleared his throat. Jackson was quiet on the other end of the line, like he was waiting for Mickey to continue, —just giving him time. Mickey finally took one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the wall. He couldn’t keep doing this. He had new skin, he had to live. He was _allowed_ to live. This was okay.

“You need directions?” Mickey finally spoke.

“To The Alibi?”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, opening the back door, going back into the warmth.

“Nah, I got it,” Jackson said. “Pick you up at six?”

Mickey scratched at the corner of his nose, “Six-fifteen.”

“Cool,” there was Jackson’s smile in his voice again. “See you then.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, see you.”

He felt good, hanging up his phone, pocketing it. He felt light in his belly, felt _excited_ about something, walking towards the bar. Vee eyed him again, giving him this look like she knew exactly what was going on in his head. He flipped her off —she returned the gesture.

“Kev should be here in a couple hours,” Vee said, grabbing her purse. “You good by yourself?”

Mickey nodded, giving a little chuckle and a face, “Yeah.”

Vee threw her hands up, “ _Sorry_ , you’re creeping me out with all that damn smiling today.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Bye Vee.”

She waved, walking out of the bar.

 

* * *

 

As soon as six o’clock hit, Mickey all but sprinted out from behind the bar and headed up to the apartment, barely hearing anything Kev was yelling behind him. He ignored the pang of _you need to chill the fuck out_ in his chest as he tore though his dresser drawers, looking for a shirt. He smelled like beer and smoke. Which, in fairness, was kind of his normal smell, he supposed... but right now he wanted to smell _clean_. 

He picked one of the new shirts that Svetlana had picked him up —black, long-sleeved Henley, nothing special. Didn’t want to come off like he was trying too hard or some shit. After he pulled on a new pair of jeans, checked his hair —and was _completely_ aware of how hard he was actually trying— he headed back downstairs, making sure to grab a jacket.

He checked his phone, sitting at the end of the bar. Five more minutes, then he would go outside and wait. Kev was eyeing him in that Kev way. The guy knew too much. Mickey stares down at his phone, messing around with apps, trying to make it look like he was busy with something else.

But Kev obviously didn’t take the hint, because he wandered over to where Mickey was, wiping down a little puddle of spilled beer. “You waiting on someone?”

Mickey looked up at Kev and frowned, “The fuck’s it to you?”

“Hey,” Kev frowned right back at him, voice lifting. “Just a question.”

Mickey sighed, looking around the bar. It was pretty packed, the regulars from nearly ten years ago blending with the new regulars so much that he couldn’t tell anymore who didn’t belong. It wasn’t the same bar. Everyone who was there belonged. The new Alibi —that served little plates of food, not just bar pretzels and peanuts, and you heard younger laughter, not just old smokers wheezes. God, it was so different.

“You got a date or something?”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at Kev’s question, then checked his phone for the time, “Why?”

Kev called over to someone looking for another drink before he turned back to Mickey, “Have a good time, alright? Just relax, you’re fine —you look good.”

Mickey didn’t answer, watching as Kev set a shot glass of whiskey in front of him and winked. He knocked it back, nodding to his friend and boss, watching as he went to the other side of the bar. Fucking Kev, Mickey swore it was like the guy just knew every fucking thing that was happening without ever being told about anything.

He left his shot glass on the bartop and made his way outside, weaving between the patrons, nodding to a few people who called out to him. He didn’t know their names but the girl with the bottle-blonde hair was there at least three times a week —she waved. She seemed like a nice enough girl.

After he shrugged his jacket on, he stepped outside, his breath catching for a second from the cold. It bit into his skin, but it felt good. Mickey leaned on the outside wall of the bar, watching for Jackson’s car. He’d seen it a few times at the shop, but never went inside —Mazda, dark blue, couldn’t’ve been more than five years old.

As soon as he saw it pull up in front of the bar, Mickey pushed off the wall and went to it, sliding inside. Jackson was there, and Mickey didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until then. He exhaled, letting the corner of his mouth lift up. Jackson was grinning at him, one hand on the wheel, other elbow resting on the center console.

“Hey,” Jackson said.

“Hey,” Mickey let his eyes scan all over Jackson’s scruffy face, his dark jacket, back to his mouth. That _fuck you_ mouth that kissed him so fucking good.

Jackson raised a brow at him, “You ready for the most mediocre deep dish pizza you’ve ever had? Guaranteed to make you go _oh… that’s decent._ ”

Mickey grinned, dipping his head in a nod, “Let’s do it.”

Then Jackson got this odd look on his face, looking over at Mickey, leaning towards him a little bit. In instinct, Mickey brought a hand up to his mouth, wiping at it, feeling the back of his neck heat up. Was something on him? Fuck.

“Here, let me...” Jackson said quietly, taking his hand off the wheel, reaching over to touch the side of Mickey’s face.

Mickey put his hand down and turned more towards Jackson; it took about half a second for him to realize that Jackson was messing with him, there was nothing on his face and that the other man’s mouth was inches away from his, his dark eyes lit up, playful but wanting. Mickey huffed a laugh, his stomach tingling and tightening and floating away all at once as Jackson kissed him. 

It was soft, and simple. Just pressing their mouths together slow. Mickey swore he felt it all over, swore that his bones were starting to melt. Before Jackson could pull away, Mickey reached up and slid his fingers into the other man’s mass of dark curls, feeling the soft texture under his fingers, kissing him again. 

Jackson breathed against him, letting Mickey lick into his mouth. He forgot where they were, because it was the least important thing in the world. Background noise outside of thecar faded away, and all he heard was their breathing against each other and soft kissing sounds. Everything else was gone. Jackson tasted like cigarettes, and coffee, and something sweet. Mickey sucked gently on his top lip, getting caught up for a moment before Jackson slowly broke the kiss.

“M’ready now,” Mickey whispered.

Jackson brushed his lips against Mickey’s one last time, whispering back, “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

The pizza place was packed, and Mickey felt a little twinge of wanting to turn right back around and get the fuck out, but it subsided once Jackson tugged on his jacket sleeve and lead the way to an open table in the corner. He waved at someone, pointing to the table before they sat down.

“They got beer?” Mickey asked, sitting down across from his date —his fucking _date_. Both of them shrugged out of their jackets, folding them on the back of their chairs.

Jackson nodded, “Nothing fancy like the stuff you guys got at The Alibi.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “I don’t drink that boughie shit, man.”

“Good,” Jackson laughed. “I don’t get that —fucking microbrews and _seasonals_.”

Mickey nodded with a grin, watching Jackson push his hair out of his face. God, the guy was really good looking. He wanted to kiss him again. For a long time. His thoughts were interrupted by a scrawny blonde kid with a notepad and pen.

“Hey Jack,” the kid greeted.

Jackson reached out and grabbed the kid’s shoulder, looking at Mickey, “Mickey, this is Alex, he’s a buddy of mine’s little brother. Alex, this is Mickey.”

Mickey nodded to the kid, “Ay.”

“Can we get a couple beers?” Jackson asked Alex. “And a pie to split?”

Alex nodded, writing something down, “What you want on it?”

Jackson looked over at Mickey, brows raised. Mickey just shrugged, looking around little packed restaurant. It was kind of loud, and he was getting a little distracted. He couldn’t really remember he’d been out on a date like this —had he ever? Didn’t seem like it. Not out to a restaurant at least. No, he never got that chance.

Jackson must have told Alex what to put on the pizza, because when Mickey looked back at him, the kid was gone, and his date was looking at him carefully. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was gonna be this packed,” he said.

“S’okay,” Mickey said.

“You good?”

Mickey nodded,”Yeah… I just uh, I’ve never done _this_ before.”

Jackson’s brows arched high, “Gone on a date?”

He nodded again, his tongue catching in the corner of his mouth, “Yeah —I mean I have, but not like _this_.”

“Not even with…”

Mickey shook his head, “Didn’t do that shit.”

Jackson frowned, propping his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his fist, “Well, fuck. Woulda taken you somewhere quieter.”

He couldn't help but give the other man a half smile, “It’s good, man.” 

Alex came back with their beers and left again, jetting off to a different table. Mickey caught Jackson looking at him as he took a drink from his beer, so he gently kicked his shin. Jackson grinned wide at that; Mickey liked that.

“You come here a lot?” Mickey asked.

Jackson nodded, “Like once a week —everyone at the shop meets up for dinner. We push a few tables together, order a couple pitchers of beer, a few pizzas…” he trailed off, his hand dropping down on top of the table next to Mickey’s. A motion that he had been expecting. Jackson touched Mickey’s wrist with his fingertips and shrugged, “You should come sometime.”

“It’s not just for people who work at the tattoo shop?” Mickey asked, letting Jackson turn his hand over on the table so his palm was facing up.

Jackson shrugged, his fingertips grazing over Mickey’s thumb, “Delia brings _her_ boyfriend sometimes, so…”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, looking over at his date. His mouth spread in a teasing smile, brows arching up high, “You just _threw_ that word out there, huh?”

Jackson laughed, his cheeks going red as he stared down at the table, “I realized when it was too late.”

He had to get Jackson to blush again. Mickey leaned forward, and it was like the volume of the restaurant had dialed down a bit, like the tension in his shoulders let up. He smiled, catching Jackson’s sight, “You think I’m gonna be your boyfriend?”

The other man blushed a little more, “Come on, man,” he laughed, hand coming up to cover his mouth. He scratched the back of his neck and Mickey wanted to reach across the table and grab him, to kiss him.

“What, now you gonna get shy on me, _Jack_?” Mickey tilted his head, not letting up his teasing.

Jackson smiled tight, trying but failing to keep his face straight as he leaned forward like Mickey, arms crossed on top of the table, cheeks still tinged pink, “You’re more of a troublemaker than I thought you were.”

He smirked, “Oh, you thought I was a nice boy?”

Jackson shook his head, his eyes flicking to look all over Mickey’s face; he wet his lips, eyebrow quirking upwards, “Not at all.”

Mickey hadn’t gotten fucked in a long, _long_ time. Couldn’t risk that shit in prison, if he couldn't help it; didn’t feel comfortable with letting some random at a club do that to him. But holy fuck, it was all he could think about right now. 

“Extra pepperoni, extra cheese, extra sauce,” Alex’s voice interrupted them as he set the pizza between them. Mickey exchanged a look with Jackson, one of those I guess we’ll finish that later looks, as Alex set down plates, napkins and silverware down for them as well.

The pizza looked really fucking good, and Mickey’s hunger turned it’s focus. After they each got a hulking, thick piece of deep dish, Mickey took one bite and he swore that his mouth had a fucking orgasm.

“You fucking lied!” Mickey accused, pointing his fork at Jackson. “This is fucking _good_!”

“Best deep dish in Chicago,” Jackson grinned. “Hey, I had to undersell it, okay? Couldn’t be like _yeah this is the best deep dish in Chicago_ , have you try it, hate it, then I look like an ass.”

Mickey laughed, taking a drink from his beer, “Fuck, that’s really good.”

 

* * *

 

“I come up here to think sometimes.”

After pizza, Jackson brought Mickey to the building where the tattoo shop was. But instead of going inside the shop, they went around to the back, climbed up the fire escape (which was a small, hilarious feat, getting the ladder down because neither one of them were exactly the tallest guys ever), and made their way to the roof.

It wasn’t a tall building. A few stories; couldn’t really see over the other buildings around them very well, but it was quiet. They sat against the little roof-access structure in corner, shoulder to shoulder. Mickey lit up a cigarette, offering it to Jackson after he took a drag.

“S’cool up here,” Mickey said. It was also freezing, but Mickey wasn’t too worried about that. “You take all the boys and girls up here?”

Jackson playfully elbowed him in the side, “Only the ones I really like.”

Mickey nodded, breathing a laugh. They were quiet for a minute, passing the cigarette back and forth, looking up into the dark sky. It was comfortable; Mickey liked Jackson, felt good with just hanging out with him and not talking just as much as he felt good talking to him. And he didn’t want to jump the gun here, but he felt like maybe this could go somewhere. It didn’t have to be anything, but it could be something. Mickey would like that.

He felt like he had to tell Jackson _sometime_ —why he went to prison. It felt like that was something that he should know. Mickey didn’t exactly know how to go about it, didn’t really want to see the other man’s face when he said _I got a fifteen year sentence for attempted murder, but got out in nine_. Truth was, he was kind of scared that it would scare Jackson off. That he’d say that and then Jackson wouldn’t look at him the same, wouldn’t want to be around him. 

Fuck it. Better to do this shit now, than get too deep in this and have it blow up in his face, right? “Listen, man… I gotta tell you something.”

“Okay,” Jackson said.

Mickey stared down at his hands, took a deep breath, and then looked over at Jackson, “I did nine years of a fifteen year sentence. For attempted murder.”

Jackson just stared back at him, his dark brows barely lifting. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times before he gave a slight nod, looking like he was trying to absorb the bomb that Mickey had dropped.  Finally he asked, “What happened?”

Mickey lit up another cigarette, taking a long drag from it. He’d set himself up for this, knew that that question would be asked, and to back out now would be really fucked up, so he just… told him.

“When I was with Ian… shit got messy. Fuck, it was always messy, but…” he started, looking away from Jackson, because this was hard. “Military police were looking for him because of some bullshit that happened in Basic. He was supposed to lay low, you know? And some _other_ shit was going down with his family —anyway, Ian’s bitch half-sister or whatever the fuck she was, called the fucking MP’s on him, setting him up to get arrested.”

“Shit,” Jackson whispered.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. He never did shit to her —he didn’t fucking deserve that. They… took him away. And I… lost my fucking mind.”

He didn’t cry over this anymore, no matter how bad the memory was. Having Ian ripped away from him when he just got him back, when they just got to a good fucking place. It hadn’t been fair, at all. He’d _just_ gotten him back. But it was a long time ago, and at some point in the past nine years, he’d come to terms with it. So he didn’t cry about it anymore. It didn’t feel like his chest was being ripped open anymore.

“Was it her?” Jackson asked. “Who you tried to…”

Mickey nodded, “I dunno if I was really trying to kill her or not, but I thought I did. Put a shit-ton of roofies in her drink —she _looked_ fucking dead. I couldn’t find a pulse, so I thought…” 

Mickey shook his head, remembering that night. In hindsight, after all was said and done, he’d been fucking _sloppy_. He wished he’d never done what he did, obviously, but he’d been so fucked up over Ian getting arrested, and so fucking angry at that bitch that he didn’t stop and think. He didn’t fucking _think_ , and he got sloppy. 

If he hadn’t’ve done nine fucking years for it, and if Jackson wasn’t sitting right next to him, he might have even laughed. Because the truth was that while he absolutely regretted all that (wasn’t sorry, still hated that cunt, but regretted what he did)… he was taught to _handle things_ better than stuffing someone in a storage container and hoping for the best. But it didn’t matter now. He fucked up, got caught, did his time, and was starting over. He was never going back to prison, ever. He _refused_ to go through that again. New life. New skin.

“But she wasn’t dead,” he said. “Long story short, she came after me with a gun. We both got arrested —both ended up getting charged with attempted murder.”

Mickey took another long drag from his cigarette, still not looking at Jackson. He didn’t want to see any hesitation in those dark eyes, didn’t want to see someone looking at him like he was either A. a piece of shit, or B. someone to be scared of. Maybe he should just leave, catch a fucking cab or something.

“So… if you wanna jump off this now,” Mickey shrugged, not knowing how to finish his sentence. His stomach was tying up in knots but he forced his face to stay still, forced himself not to show how fucked up this was making him. He made the right move though, right? That was what he was supposed to do, right? Be honest —be upfront. He felt some kind of weird responsibility to Jackson, almost like he was trying to protect him.

Then Jackson slipped his hand into Mickey’s, interlocking their fingers, and Mickey finally looked at him, chest tight. “That was really brave,” Jackson said. “Telling me about all that, I mean. So, I appreciate that, a lot. Thank you for telling me.”

Mickey’s chest was still tight, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But,” he said.

Jackson shook his head, “No but.”

He huffed a disbelieving laugh, “The fuck you mean no but? I just fucking told you I tried to kill someone.”

“I like you,” Jackson said. “And… I trust you.”

He probably shouldn’t have been so flustered, but he was. Mickey gently took his hand out of Jackson’s and stood up, running his fingers over his hair as he tried to figure this shit out in his head, “You don’t… _know_ me like that. How’re you gonna trust me when you don’t know me?”

Jackson sighed, standing up as well. He reached out for Mickey, a little grin on his lips, “You tryna look out for me?”

“It’s not fucking funny,” Mickey said, but the corner of his mouth was threatening to lift, because _honestly_.

“I know it’s not,” Jackson nodded. His hand reached down for Mickey’s, and his skin was so warm, despite the cold. Mickey tried to not do it, but he held onto Jackson’s hand, slipping his fingers into the spaces between Jackson’s fingers. It felt like their hands were roughly the same size; it felt good.

“I know I don’t know you like that, but… I feel like I do,” Jackson shrugged. “Can you trust me to trust you? I love that you told me, and you were upfront about it. I respect the _fuck_ out of that, Mickey. And yeah, it’s a lot to take in… but I trust you.”

Mickey sighed, letting Jackson into his space when he stepped closer. He felt like this was too good to be true, “Usually for normal people, this would be a fucking red flag.”

“Well,” Jackson shrugged. “Not for nothing, but that kid from the pizza place, Alex? I met his big brother when I was locked up. His name’s Will; he’s of my best friends. He’s still got like twenty more years or something like that before they let him out… first degree murder charges.”

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed. That could have been him, if Sammi died. Nine years was rough as fuck. Over twenty years though? Mickey didn’t think he would have lasted that long.

Jackson nodded, “Yeah… he did a really fucking bad thing. But besides that, Will’s a good guy, a really good guy. And I trust him, keep an eye out for his brother, talk to him at least once a month, visit when I can. I love him like family. So… can you let me trust you? Because I like you. A lot.”

The back of his neck went warm. Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, part of him _still_ waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Jackson to rip his hand away. But Jackson never did that, he just looked at Mickey, his dark brows arched, a patient smile on his lips. 

Mickey wondered, for a brief moment, when he was going to wake up from this dream, because this couldn’t be how things really worked. This couldn’t be how people normally reacted to learning that their date was locked up for trying to kill someone.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” Mickey murmured.

“Hey, if you don’t like me like that; if you don’t want to hang out or whatever… that’s one thing. I’ll back off right now —it’ll suck, but I’ll respect that,” Jackson said. “But if you’re trying to scare me away for some reason, you should know that I don’t scare easy. I might be a nerd with Dumbledore tattooed on my fucking body… but there’s more to _me_ that _you_ don’t know. And I am still _very_ South Side, so you’re gonna have to do better than getting locked up for attempted murder to scare me away.”

It was kind of hard to breathe —but in a good way, at least Mickey thought in a good way. It felt right. “I like you,” he said, finally meeting Jackson’s eyes. 

Jackson smiled wide and slow, “So, you wanna keep hanging out with me?”

Mickey caught his tongue in the corner of his mouth as he tried not to smile back —it was hard because Jackson’s smiles were so damn infectious. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Jackson nodded. “Can I fucking kiss you now —or am I gonna have to do another romcom speech?”

Mickey subconsciously licked his lips, his mouth tingling as he nodded back, “Yeah —yeah.”

He let Jackson back him up against the wall of the roof-access structure, sighing when hands came up to hold either side of his face and soft lips pressed against his. Mickey grabbed for Jackson’s hips; the other man was kissing him firm, but soft at the same time, completely taking the lead. Mickey gave it up easily, pulling Jackson closer, needing him flush against him, needing all of it.

He was going to let Jackson trust him —was going to let himself trust Jackson too. Because this moment was everything to Mickey right now. So while Mickey grabbed at Jackson’s jacket, slipping his hands inside, slipping them under his shirt, touching his warm skin… he relaxed. Jackson’s fingers were in Mickey’s hair, teeth tugging at his bottom lip, and Mickey let it all happen, let Jackson overwhelm him.

“Here, come here,” Jackson panted against Mickey’s mouth, breaking their kiss, pulling him —Mickey followed without questioning, watching Jackson open the roof-access door and pull him inside to the tiny platform at the top of the stairs leading down into the building.

It was warmer inside, and Mickey melted into the corer of the wall and the door, reaching for Jackson, grabbing him by the back of his neck, pulling him close again. Jackson breathed heavy against his mouth, his fingers working the zipper of Mickey’s jacket, pulling it open.

“I don’t have anything on me,” Mickey caught his breath while he pulled away from their kiss. His lips and jaw were tender from Jackson’s scruff, almost felt a little swollen, but it was such a sweet feeling.

Jackson grinned at him, his hands coming up to hold either side of Mickey’s face again —Mickey  liked that a lot, he liked how Jackson gently directed his focus, his his thumbs rested at the tops of his cheeks. “M’not trying to fuck right here, right now,” Jackson said. “Just trying to kiss you.”

God, it was like Mickey forgot how to fucking do this —he forgot how to be a person. He couldn’t keep the words from leaving his mouth, like some idiot he asked, “You just wanna make out?”

But Jackson’s grinned softened as he stared at Mickey’s lips, his thumb moving to brush over them, marveling at them. Mickey wasn’t sure anyone had ever done that to him before, he couldn't _remember_ , couldn't think —everything else was blurry and unimportant except for the way Jackson was touching him, holding him, looking at him.

“I’m pretty sure I could kiss you for days,” Jackson whispered.

Fuck. Mickey found himself again, going hot and tingly all over, feeling Jackson’s words on every single part of his body. He pushed out of the corner, switching their positions so now Jackson was the one in the corner, and kissed him again. Jackson made a little noise against Mickey’s mouth. Mickey grinned.

 

* * *

 

He felt drunk and high, without being either one. Mickey even swayed a little in the hallway, walking to the apartment door. It was late, his jaw was aching so sweetly, and he couldn't remember the last time —or any time— he’d just _kissed_ for that fucking long, that intensely. He probably looked like a mess, tried several times to tame his smile, but it wouldn’t happen.

As quietly as he could, he unlocked the front door and slipped inside. It was mostly dark, except for the kitchen light. He locked up, shrugged out of his jacket, hung it up, and took a deep breath. Still felt high; his grin grew a little more before he fought it back down again.

“Wasn’t sure if you were coming home,” Svetlana’s voice came from the kitchen; she was at the sink washing dishes. “You have date?”

Mickey wiped at his tender mouth (it was probably all fucking red, looking like a damn teenager sneaking back in late at night, _wonderful_ ). He walked over to the counter, resting his hip on the edge; she gave him a little teasing smile. He didn’t answer her question, but apparently that was enough confirmation, because she nodded.

“You forgot your tips from today, I put them in your room, on your dresser,” Svetlana said.

He nodded, “Thanks. Yev sleeping?”

She nodded, reaching for another dish to scrub, “His homework is on the kitchen table, I checked it, but he likes when you check it. I do not think he thinks I can do math —that, or he thinks you are Einstein.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, pushing off of the counter, “I’ll look at it.”

While he made his way to the kitchen table to glance over his math worksheets, Svetlana was quiet, sloshing water in the background. The kid’s work checked out, and he was about to go hop into the shower and head for bed, when Svetlana called out for him again.

“I need to talk to you about something,” she said.

Mickey took a deep breath, his non-high high feeling slipping just a little bit, “Okay, but if it’s something that’s gonna piss me the fuck off, I’m asking nicely… please wait for tomorrow.”

She paused, worrying her bottom lip for a moment before giving him a single nod, “I will wait.”

Micky took a deep breath, trying not to dwell too much on whatever it was that she’d need to talk to him about, “Thank you.”

Svetlana smirked, “Do you need a pack of frozen peas? You look like someone punched you in the mouth a few times.”

Mickey raised his middle finger, heading for the bathroom, walking away from Svetlana’s soft laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested: A really lovely anon asked questions about Jackson and Mickey on my tumblr, if you want to learn more about them *shrug* -I got really excited that someone was asking different questions about them, so :) [here](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/139094071353/mickey-and-jackson-questions-does-jackson-share) & [here](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/139100022898/if-you-want-more-jackson-and-mickey-questions) & [some general/background stuff about Jackson](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/138825567128/can-you-talk-to-us-more-about-jackson-like-what)


	5. Gargoyle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: I DID NOT HAVE TIME TO DO A QUICK EDIT ON THIS. Any incorrect spelling or wrong words or whatever, I'm sorry. I'll go back and go through everything later.

Mickey held up a finger, signaling for Svetlana to wait while he dumped Tobasco sauce into his beer. There was a yellow globe of yolk at the bottom of his glass, the raw egg already dropped in. Mickey glanced across the bar at Svetlana, who made a face at his drink, while she waited for him to finish.

He already knew what she was going to say; he just felt like he needed a drink in him before she actually said the words. He set the hot sauce aside, his finger still risen in front of Svetlana, still telling her to wait while he chugged his drink down. The slimy raw egg slid down his throat, and _yeah okay_ … it was kind of disgusting. But he liked his beer breakfast every once in a while. Get his protein in, and all that shit.

“Okay,” he said, resting both his elbows on the bar. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

She sighed, looking around a minute, even though the place was empty. “Ian was asking about you… he would like to see you.”

He _knew_ that was exactly what she was going to say, but it still caught him off guard. Because there’d been this tiny sliver of _maybe it’s about something else_ —maybe a pipe was broken in the apartment, or Yev got suspended from school. He hadn’t heard her say his name in the last six and a half months, hadn’t even heard her talking about him.

Honestly, he didn’t know what to say. Svetlana shrugged a shoulder, “I told him that I would talk to you about it. I did not think you would want to see him.”

Was that true? Mickey didn’t really know. It had been so fucking long; the last time Mickey saw Ian, he’d felt like he was drowning —felt like Ian had broken that glass window, reached over, ripped his chest open and tore out his heart. 

Mickey told Ian to lie to him, and Ian gave him that. Mickey knew even before the words came out of Ian’s mouth that he wasn’t going to wait for him. He thought he needed that lie to keep him going. But it only made it worse.

The only thing he could do at that point was give a helpless shrug. He didn’t know what to say, how to respond. 

This little broken part of Mickey, this part of him that was covered in a thick layer of dust, put up on a shelf and forgotten, had flickered. He didn’t know if it was a flicker of hope, or nostalgia, or yearning —or a combination of those things— but it did flicker. He felt it, faintly, distantly. Like an old car battery trying to power up, making the car _click-click-click_ , only to go cold again, lifeless.

Then this other little part of him, this rotten, decayed chunk of his insides that had been simmering for nine years, put on a back burner —also forgotten— had bubbled. It was anger and bitterness; created from _Svetlana paid me_ , infidelity, and the taste of blood. 

It bubbled the same time the flicker happened, and he was left with not knowing which one to hold onto. Maybe it would have been better to let them both go. If only he knew how to do that, if only he had the tools to unhook the battery, to take the anger off of the burner. He hadn’t felt those things in a _very_ long time, but hearing that Ian wanted to see him… he remembered.

“I need to think about it,” Mickey said.

She nodded, “You let me know, I will let him know.”

 

* * *

 

A few days passed. Jackson was slammed with clients, so Mickey couldn’t really see him, but they texted and called nearly every day. It was odd, in a way, but Mickey liked it. He liked feeling his phone buzzing his pocket and seeing Jackson’s name pop up on the screen. One morning, Mickey got a just-woke-up picture, with Jackson all bleary-eyed, curls a mess, lips full from sleep; Jackson had dark blue sheets and mis-matching pillowcases. He stared at the picture for probably longer than he should have, wishing that he could have seen him in person, heard what his voice sounded like right when he woke up.

After those few days, while Mickey was taking a smoke break out back, Jackson texted him, **_I finally got Netflix hooked up to my TV. You should come over. I am really good at ordering take-out, and my couch is really comfy._**

Mickey grinned, bottom lip catching between his teeth, typing back, **_You’re not gonna make me dinner? The fuck, Romeo?_**

**_I didn’t know you were a romantic. You want candles too? Champagne?_** , Jackson typed back.

Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up. He took a drag from his cigarette, looking around the back alley. **_Dick._**

**_I can arrange for that to be on the menu._ **

Mickey laughed loud, shaking his head; he couldn’t keep it in. He got a second text from Jackson right after, **_I don’t actually know a lot about cooking, otherwise I would definitely cook for you._**

Fuck it. Mickey shrugged, typing back as he held his breath, **_How about I come over and cook for you?_**

**_Look who’s Romeo now. What do you have in mind?_ **

**_Spaghetti._** Mickey replied, exhaling. It was simple enough.

And that was that. They made the plans, Mickey feeling stirring in his belly. He hadn’t been to Jackson’s place before; they’d be alone, in private. He felt so dumb for feeling nervous, for feeling like he was some squirmy schoolgirl with a big crush. But he liked Jackson a lot, and kept thinking of how his lips felt kissing him, how he made these breathy little sounds against his mouth, how when they pressed against each other, everything just lined up perfectly.

He walked back into the bar, giving a nod to a group of guys playing pool. Kev was working the bar, lining up shots when he got back. The taller man gave him a grin, nodding to the far end of the bar, for Mickey to go take care of the customers down there.

Not even fifteen, maybe twenty minutes passed before someone Mickey hadn’t seen in almost ten years sat across from him at the bar. He still had that same smug fucking look on his face, as though to say that South Side should be honored that someone like him was born and raised there, then (as far as Mickey knew) abandoned as soon as he got the chance.

Mickey shook his head, huffing out a laugh, “Ian send you?”

“Nah,” Lip shook his head. “Been talking about you though —won’t shut up about wanting to see you… he thought he’d hear back from Svetlana by now, I guess.”

Mickey sighed, looking back at the clock behind him —two more hours to go before he could get the fuck out of there. And for some reason, he wasn’t reacting to what Lip was saying like he knew he normally would. The thing was, he was holding onto the thought of seeing Jackson later, holding on so tightly, that Lip coming to talk about Ian was just… kind of annoying. He was annoyed. Where the fuck was Ian if he wanted to talk to him so bad? What was with all this bullshit?

“Why the fuck is he sending everyone to talk to me about talking to him?” Mickey narrowed his eyes at the Gallagher. “It’s been almost ten fucking years, man. So you can go tell him that if he wants to talk to me… he knows where the fuck I am. Tell him to stop acting like a little bitch. Jesus _Christ_.”

“Calm down, I told you he didn’t send me,” Lip said. “I’m just trying to help my brother out.”

Mickey shrugged, “Whatever, man.”

“Do you not wanna see him?” Lip asked, his eyebrows raised.

Mickey took a deep breath, looking around the crowded bar, “Not for nothing, _Phillip_ , but the last time I saw your brother, it wasn’t exactly a Nicholas Sparks moment. So excuse the fuck outta me for needing to think about it.”

Lip laughed a little at that, “What do you know about Nicholas Sparks?”

Mickey huffed, grabbing a beer for a customer, handing it off. God, Lip was still an idiot. He always thought he was South Side, but never really was. Lip had his moments, from what Mickey could remember, of being decent. But for the most part, Mickey had always thought he was a dick, thought he was a little boy sporting big boy pants, trying to convince the world he was better than everyone else. Maybe he was, Mickey didn’t know. 

“We done here? I got a fucking job, so…”

Lip slapped a couple bills onto the bar, “Can I get a beer?”

It took Mickey a great deal of restraint to not reach over and slam the fucker’s head into the bar-top. He rolled his eyes, “What kind?”

Lip shrugged, “Whatever’s good.”

Mickey grabbed a glass, filling it with the shittiest beer they had on tap, and set it in front of Lip, grabbing the wad of cash. He surrendered to a thought flickering in the back of his mind, half-heartedly asking, “How is he?”

“You know Ian… even when he’s not good, he’s good,” Lip said. He took a sip of the beer Mickey gave him and pulled a face, but didn’t say anything about it.

“So, he’s not doing good?”

Lip shook his head, “No, he’s fine —just doesn’t talk to anyone about shit. Never has.”

Mickey nodded, needing to cut this conversation short, needing to get back to work, “A’ight, well… I gotta to to the back—”

“Wait, Mickey,” Lip sighed, waving him back over. When Mickey stood across from Lip, the other man sighed, giving him a shrug. “It was fucked up —them throwing you away like that, for what happened with Sammi, when they didn’t have anything on you.”

Mickey felt tension curl over his shoulders, but he nodded, not knowing what else to say. He always thought it was bound to happen sooner or later anyways, getting put away for a long time. They’d been putting his old man away for years, knew him by name —seeing another Milkovich come across their desk for attempted murder? No shit, he got thrown in the can, no questions asked. As far as Cook County was concerned, every single one of Terry Milkovich’s kids had their name on the list since first breath. Terry paved the way.

“I don’t know what all happened with you and Ian, but… you always had his back, so,” Lip gave another shrug. “Probably doesn’t mean much coming from me, but thanks for that.”

He couldn’t help it, he punched out a hallow laugh, shaking his head before his face dropped, “Did me good, huh?” He hadn’t really meant to say that, but it came out. It came out hot, burning like acid.

Lip’s usually smug face softened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Mickey just wanted to get out of there, so he walked away, telling Kev he needed another quick break —even though he just got back from one.

 

* * *

 

His palms were sweaty, and he tried to not sing that one Eminem song in his head (he failed miserably, and shook his head at himself — _knees weak, arms are heavy, there’s vomit on his sweat already, mom’s spaghetti_ ) while he walked up their stairs to Jackson’s apartment, plastic bag in hand. The building was decent for South Side —one of those places that got renovated when the wave of hipsters and DIY Weekend Warriors invaded his hometown. 

Mickey forced all of the Gallaghers away from his mind as he knocked on the painted door —probably was once dark brown and lifeless, but now it was cream-colored. The hallway was well lit, but empty. Mickey wondered if most of the old apartment buildings were done up like this now.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Jackson gave him a wide smile, moving out of the way so Mickey could come in. He looked around —decent place, too. Dark furniture and framed pictures on the walls, some drawings, some photography. It was simple, mostly clean, but very lived in, and Mickey liked that. 

He felt a hand on the back of his shoulder, so he turned his head, sighing softly when Jackson pressed a kiss to his lips, his other hand easing the plastic bag from Mickey’s hand. The hand on Mickey’s shoulder slid to the back of his head, threading into his hair, and Mickey grinned against the other man’s mouth. He felt his insides lighting up —was that a thing? It felt like a thing.

“Missed that,” Jackson murmured, breaking their kiss. “Let me show you to the kitchen, _monsieur_.”

Mickey hadn’t brought over a lot of stuff, just pasta and sauce and hamburger meat; Jackson already had things laid out for him —too many pots and pans for what he was actually doing. It was kind of cute, in a way. There was even a bottle of beer next to the stove for him.

“You know how to cook hamburger meat?” Mickey looked over at Jackson. 

The other man frowned, tattooed arms folding under his chest, “Not really… I thought you were cooking for me.”

Mickey smirked, reaching for Jackson. He wanted him close, wanted to feel that warmth pressed against him, so he curled an arm around Jackson’s waist and pulled him, noses brushing against each other. Jackson’s cheeks flushed a little bit, but he melted into Mickey, and it was the best feeling.

“I’ll teach you,” Mickey said. “It’s easy.”

“Hm,” Jackson hummed, backing Mickey against the edge of the counter. He kissed him again, and Mickey responded instantly, breathing him in when he felt hands hold either side of his face. Then Jackson backed off a little, putting a little space between them; he was breathing hard and grinning. “Should probably start cooking, then.”

Mickey nodded, his stomach tight and fluttery, “Yeah.”

It was hard not to laugh at Jackson, when he started cooking the hamburger meat while the water boiled for the pasta. He stood next to Mickey at the stove, poking at it with a wooden spoon, making disgusted noises; he fidgeted, obviously growing bored of just standing there. 

So after a few minutes, Mickey took over, grinning when he felt Jackson move behind him, hands resting on his hips, lips on the back of his neck. It was nice, and felt so natural, that Mickey leaned back into the other man. Then Jackson hooked his chin over Mickey’s shoulder, arms snaking around his waist, watching him cook, keeping quiet. 

“This okay?” Jackson asked, his voice low.

Mickey turned his head, meeting Jackson’s lips with his own —briefly, sweetly. Mickey forgot he could do this. He forgot he could be soft. “Yeah,” he replied.

“I’m glad you came over,” Jackson said.

Mickey felt warm all over; he tried to fight a smile, but it was barely working. Jackson moved his head so his cheek was resting on Mickey’s shoulder, his breath bleeding over Mickey’s neck. He was watching him, just staring at him, and Mickey was oddly okay with it.

“Smells good,” Jackson added.

“S’beef,” Mickey shrugged the shoulder that Jackson wasn’t resting on.

Jackson breathed a laugh, pressing his lips to the side of Mickey’s neck before he untangled from him, “That too.”

Again, his body warmed up, around his cheeks and down the back of his neck. Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, dipping his chin down so Jackson couldn’t see him undoubtedly blushing like a little bitch.

“So, I got a couple options for you,” Jackson said, hopping up on the kitchen counter. “You ready?”

“Options for what?”

“Movies,” Jackson said. He started rattling off movies that Mickey had never heard of before, with little synopses of each of them. He had named about five or six, then adding, “Or we can just look through everything and see what jumps out at you.”

Mickey gave a little shrug as he moved the cooking hamburger meat around in the pan, “Whatever you wanna do, I’m not picky.”

“ _You’re_ the guest,” Jackson nudged Mickey’s hip with the toe of his shoe.

He rolled his eyes, reaching over for the box of spaghetti and jar of sauce. Except there was a fucking _gargoyle_ looking thing perched on the counter, large gold eyes, and Mickey jumped, moving away quickly.

“What the fuck,” he pointed at it. Jackson doubled over, sliding off of the counter as he laughed loudly. “What the fuck is that?”

Trying to catch his breath, Jackson grabbed onto Mickey’s shoulder to steady himself. Mickey looked over at him, pulling a face. “That’s Nagini —my cat,” he finally gasped out.

“Is it fucking sick?” Mickey, still not laughing, eyed the “cat” in question. There wasn’t a patch of hair on the thing, like a wrinkled dark skin-bag with huge eyes and ears, just staring at him. It almost looked more bat-like than anything. Seriously, was something wrong with it? “Do you need to take that thing to a vet?”

“She’s a hairless cat —a Sphynx,” Jackson took a deep breath, wide smile still in place. He walked over to the counter and scooped the gargoyle up, walking towards Mickey. “She’s very sweet.”

Mickey shook his head, “I’m not touching it.”

“ _Her_ ,” Jackson corrected. “Just pet her.”

Again, Mickey shook his head, “ _She_ doesn’t have hair.”

“She’s not supposed to,” Jackson laughed. “You don’t like cats?”

“I like cats just fine —I used to have a cat. But _that_ is not a fucking cat. That’s a gargoyle.”

Jackson’s mouth dropped open in mock-horror, “You monster! She’s beautiful.” He set the cat up on his shoulder. She immediately settled up there, her head bumping into the side of Jackson’s face, nuzzling him.

Finally, Mickey let a grin crack over his mouth, “She’s _something_.”

“You’re so mean,” Jackson chuckled. He reached up and pet Nagini, prompting her to nuzzle him again, “Just touch her.”

Mickey pulled another face, “She’s all skin.”

Jackson quirked a brow at Mickey, “I’m all skin —you don’t wanna touch me?”

Another wave of heat hit Mickey. He wet his lips, trying not to laugh, “That’s different.”

Nagini then let out this horrible, loud meow as she looked at Mickey. His eyebrows raised higher than he thought they ever had as he looked to Jackson for some sort of explanation. Nagini meowed again, sounding like someone had stepped on her gross, hairless tail.

Jackson snorted a laugh, “She’s deaf —she’s got no volume control.” 

Mickey heaved a long sigh and nodded, because _of course_ the hairless, gargoyle looking cat was deaf, and sounded like someone was trying to murder it when it meowed. He shrugged, “A’ight… bring her over here.”

 

* * *

 

During dinner, they started out sitting across from each other at Jackson’s little kitchen table, but after about ten minutes, Jackson pulled his chair around so he could sit next to Mickey. And normally Mickey liked his space, but it was okay. Jackson turned sideways in his chair, facing Mickey as they talked and ate. They talked about everything.

Every once in a while he reached over and ran his fingers over the back of Mickey’s hair. It was surreal; it was like Jackson couldn’t get enough of Mickey, like he was fascinated by him. And even though Mickey didn’t really understand how he could be that interesting, he wasn’t about to question it, wasn’t about to do anything to get Jackson to stop —it felt good, more than physically, to have the other man looking at him and touching him like that.

Then Jackson told Mickey about his mother. About how he was on his own most of his childhood because she worked so much, so many jobs —he never knew his father. He said she was really great, and despite the fact that they didn’t spend a lot of time together when he was growing up, they were pretty close now.

Mickey thought about telling Jackson about his father. But then that would lead down a path that he wasn’t sure either one of them were ready for yet. Terry finally got his in prison a year ago —talked too much shit to the wrong person, evidently. When he finally found out about it, there was a twinge of _oh shit_ , maybe only because that was his father.

But Mickey didn’t think about it too much, not while he was with Jackson. Didn’t let himself because what was the point; it would just sour his mood. He didn’t want to disrupt this perfect little bubble —just him and Jackson (and the gargoyle sitting on the counter, watching them), eating and talking. 

It was nice, maybe too nice —maybe too movie-magic, but Mickey didn’t give a fuck. He liked it. They just clicked. Mickey ended up telling a few of his favorite stories of him and his siblings doing stupid shit around the neighborhood, causing trouble, running from cops. Jackson listened, looking engaged as ever in everything Mickey said.

Then casually, offhandedly, because they were talking about their days, Mickey mentioned Lip coming into the bar, asking if he was going to talk to Ian. As the words were coming out of his mouth, Mickey’s brain started scrambling to shut him up, but the words didn’t stop. That was like, lesson _one_ in seeing someone new, wasn't it —don’t talk about your ex? Shit.

Jackson got quiet for a second, elbow resting on the edge of the table, head cocked to the side, “You gonna go talk to him?”

Mickey shrugged, pushing the last of his spaghetti around on his plate, “Should probably get it over with. Dunno if I wanna talk to him, don’t know what good it will fucking do.”

Quietly, carefully, Jackson asked, “Do you miss him?”

Mickey sighed, looking over at him, “It’s been almost a decade.”

“Yeah, but… do you miss him?”

He shrugged, not knowing how he felt. That car battery flicker happened again _click-click-click-click_ , but died out. “Maybe if things were different… if shit didn’t pan out the way it did, then I would miss him more,” he said, behind honest because it felt right to be honest with Jackson, especially after telling him about why he went to prison. “I dunno if I miss him.”

Jackson nodded, “Ended pretty bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded back.

“He hurt you pretty bad,” it wasn’t a question. 

Mickey didn’t answer, feeling his insides wanting to curl up, wanting to take the rest of his body to curl up and stop talking, stop listening, not wanting to be there. Yeah, Ian hurt him pretty bad. It was almost a decade ago, and he’d forgotten a good chunk of that hurt —had to forget that hurt to survive— but it filtered back, little by little. Yeah… Ian hurt him.

Then just as he felt his walls rebuilding themselves, Jackson reached over, both of his hands slipping into Mickey’s hands, holding them, bringing each one up to his lips to press a kiss to the back of his hands. And Mickey bit his bottom lip hard in effort not to snort a laugh, because it was such a cheesy, gallant move —a move that did it’s job to halt his walls from building any further.

“Smooth,” Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him, instinct dictating him to distract from the uncomfortable topic. “Hate to tell you though, but I ain’t a princess.”

Jackson breathed a laugh, eyes rolling, “Well, even if you were a princess, I’d still like you.”

His walls slipped back down, shoulders dropping a little, relaxing. Mickey scrunched up his face and shook his head, “Yeah, you really fucking would, wouldn’t you?”

Jackson nodded, “Yes I would.”

 

* * *

 

“I got this, you don’t have to,” Jackson elbowed Mickey as they stood side-by-side at the kitchen sink. “You cooked.”

Mickey shrugged, elbowing him back. He grabbed one of the plates and dunked it in the water that Jackson was scrubbing the other pate in, both of them crowding together at that point, to clean their dish.

“Just trying to get up on me, huh?” Jackson teased.

“You caught me,” he laughed.

They were quiet for a moment; it was comfortable. Mickey was definitely scrubbing his plate for longer than necessary, and Jackson was doing much of the same. There was a little shift in the air; Mickey felt this tension radiating off of Jackson, the kind people got when they wanted to say something, or ask a question. 

He caught his tongue in the corner of his mouth, trying to hold his grin in, before looking over at the other man, brows raised in question, “What?”

Jackson cleared his throat, shaking his head, “Nothing.”

Mickey hummed, rinsing his plate off, setting it aside, “Liar.”

After following Mickey’s lead in rinsing his plate off, Jackson wiped his hands on a towel and turned towards Mickey, taking a deep breath, “Did you decide on a movie, or do you just wanna see why there is?”

Mickey eyed Jackson for a second, because it felt like that wasn’t what he really wanted to say. He wondered if something put Jackson off —maybe what they talked about during dinner. Or maybe he was just reading too far into it, everything felt so new because of how long it had been. He shrugged, “I guess just see.”

Jackson grinned wide, “This is where I _really_ learn all about you.”

Mickey nodded, grinning back because it was so had not to when Jackson looked at him like that. He followed the other man into the living room, sitting back on the couch —just like Jackson had promised, it was really comfortable and Mickey sank into the cushions.

“C’mere,” Jackson murmured, reaching for Mickey, tugging on his arm. “This is a lay-down couch.”

“Oh really?” Mickey snorted a laugh, letting Jackson pull him closer, move them so they were laid out across the cushions. 

“Mmhm,” Jackson settles behind Mickey, pulling him close so they’re molded to each other. 

It feels good, but the last thing Mickey really wants to do now is watch a fucking movie. Jackson’s breath is warm on the back of his neck, the weight of his arm wrapped over his waist anchors Mickey. It’s comfortable; Mickey can feel his body relaxing back against the other man. He can’t really remember when the last time his body relaxed like this. He almost wants to close his eyes and fall asleep.

Jackson keeps his voice soft when he speaks. “You comfortable?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Mickey says.

“Here,” Jackson hands Mickey a remote. “Do your thing.”

Mickey makes a little protesting groan, but takes the remote, quickly figuring out how to navigate this Netflix shit. Jackson takes to pressing his mouth to the back of Mickey’s shoulder, hand gently running up and down his side. Fuck, he likes that. He likes that a lot. It’s hard to concentrate on what he’s looking at on the tv screen when the entire back of his body is pressed to Jackson’s, their knees slightly bent together; every time Jackson breathes, Mickey breathes with him. The hand running up and down Mickey’s side is slow and rhythmic, hypnotizing. Up and down, up and down —ribs to hip, hip to ribs.

He settles on Force of Execution, which admittedly is a fucking _horrible_ movie, but whatever, it’s Seagal. It’s barely worth watching, but if Jackson needed to know one thing about Mickey right now, it was that Seagal was _the man_ , over all others. No matter how bad that hairline was, Seagal was fucking awesome.

“You’re a Seagal guy?” Jackson stops rubbing Mickey’s side and curls his arm around him, holding him tightly

“Absolutely,” Mickey grins.

“I’ve never been into these kinds of movies, but I’ll give it a shot… for you.”

Mickey snorts, trying to turn his head enough to see the man behind him, “We don’t gotta watch this. It’s fucking terrible.”

Jackson doesn’t say anything back, and Mickey can’t really properly see him, so he turns his body enough so he can. He’s just looking at him, dark eyes scanning all over Mickey’s face, arm resting gently across his middle. Mickey gets all warm; he gives Jackson a little grin, which is returned immediately.

The movie is playing low in the background, but Mickey doesn't care. He slowly tuns more towards Jackson until he’s completely facing him. Their legs slot between each other and Mickey carefully wraps his arm around Jackson, bringing them closer; their noses brush each other, and Mickey feels warm breath move over his mouth.

Shitty indie music might as well have been playing. Jackson was beautiful and Mickey knew that he was riding this ‘new relationship’ high (was this a relationship yet?) but he honestly just couldn't really think of any other place he wanted to be, other than right there. On that couch. With Jackson. Staring at each other.

Mickey feels it everywhere, feels it in his bones. He wanted him. So bad, wanted Jackson to help him forget all the bad shit, all the shit he left behind. Mickey’s body is warm and tight and he feels that stirring low in his belly. Tension travels between them, he can feel it, he can taste it. He pushes forward, lips covering Jackson’s.

Jackson sighs into his mouth, his body stretching and pulling Mickey closer, kissing him deeply. It’s hot and intense; Jackson takes over his whole fucking _being_ when he kisses him. Mickey licks into his mouth —Jackson lets him in without hesitation. They move against each other, perfectly synced. It’s not weird at all, it’s not difficult, it’s like they’ve been doing this for _years_.

When Jackson makes a breathy noise against Mickey’s mouth, he makes one back. He can’t help it. He reaches between them, needing more, wanting to feel everything, wanting to touch. When he presses his hand between their bodies, cupping Jackson over his jeans, he earns a low moan and stuttering hips.

It had been so long since he laid on a couch and did this. It had been so long since he’d wanted someone this fucking bad. Flickers of almost ten years ago flash across his mind, but he shoves them aside, almost tripping him up. 

He kisses Jackson harder, shoving harder at the memories, because he doesn't want them in his head, it’s not okay for them to be in his head right now. He wants dark eyes and dark hair and that scratch against his chin and lips as they kiss. He wants tattooed arms and this smell. Jackson’s smell is good and different, but still fucking good. He wants that smell stained onto his skin.

“Mickey,” Jackson pants, hand gently curling around his wrist, moving his hand away. “Wait a second.”

Mickey frowns, mind fuzzy, confused, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing —nothing’s wrong, I just… there’s some things I don’t wanna rush into right now,” Jackson says carefully. “Are you cool with that?”

Mickey nodded, because he was cool with that (and also, what the fuck was he going to do —storm out of the apartment and throw a temper tantrum because Jackson didn’t want to fuck?) But he feels this sick churn in his belly like he did something wrong. 

He untangles from Jackson, not knowing what to say or how to say it. His body is coming down from humming and wanting, and his mind is going a million miles an hour. He wants Jackson, but if he did something wrong —fuck, maybe he shouldn't have grabbed him through his jeans like that. Maybe it really had been too long since he did this and he was fucking everything up.

And then the other part of him went back to the conversation at dinner. His stomach sank further. Vaguely he felt Jackson sit up with him, next to him, but he couldn't really concentrate on that because his mind was taking him away —he shouldn't have brought up Ian. Probably scared Jackson or something.

“I’m cool with that,” Mickey finally got out. 

Jackson reached for Mickey’s hand, holding it, “Hey.”

Mickey looked over at him, “If I did something I wasn’t… I don’t want you to think I’m trying to fucking maul you or—”

“Oh shit, no-no-no. It’s not like that,” Jackson shook his head. He moved easily, grinning at Mickey as he straddled his lap. The corner of Mickey’s mouth lifted a little as he set his hands on the top of Jackson’s thighs, a little relief fluttering in his chest. 

“Is it about… what we talked about earlier?”

Jackson sighed, resting his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, “A little, but not all about that.”

Mickey felt his stomach drop. He stayed quiet, waiting for Jackson to keep talking, to fill the silence. His blunt fingernails gently dug into the material of Jackson’s jeans, trying to ground himself, forcing himself to stay where he was and _listen_ , instead of getting out from under Jackson and getting the fuck out of there, like his knee-jerk reaction told him to.

“I really like you,” Jackson said. “A lot. And trust me, I wanna be with you, like _really_ bad. _So_ fucking bad. I just feel like the last chapter of your life hasn’t closed yet.”

Still, Mickey stayed quiet. He soaked in the words, staring at Jackson’s shoulder.

“I don’t want it to sound like some fucked up ultimatum, that’s not what this is, _at all_ , I promise. I really like you… I wanna be with you… but I can’t until you’re okay with letting him go. And if you’re not ready to let him go… then we shouldn’t get too far ahead of ourselves, you know?”

Mickey finally looked at Jackson’s face. He couldn’t get the words _I am ready_ out. He said it over and over in his head, but they wouldn't come out of his mouth. He _was_ ready. He was in this, all in. He wanted Jackson —not just to fuck, but to be with him. He liked him. He was comfortable with him. He wanted this. He was ready.

Jackson wrapped his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. “Sex is just really intimate for me. And I want you _so_ fucking bad,” he tilted his head, ghosting his lips across Mickey’s, barely kissing him. Mickey’s breath caught, his body tightening and warming, and _wanting_ again. “M’selfish like that… I want every single part of you to myself. And if I gotta wait, I can do that. Because I wanna give you all of me, too.”

Mickey’s mouth watered. He almost protested Jackson’s words, almost told him that he was okay, that he had him, all of him right here and now —he was fucking _good-to-go_. But that wasn’t his head thinking that, that was his dick. He wanted Jackson so bad, thought about it more than he was willing to admit. But he understood what Jackson was saying, he understood that Jackson had to look out for his own heart too —and Mickey respected that.

Right now though, he couldn't fucking breathe. His hands slid up Jackson’s thighs, grabbing onto his hips, pulling him closer. God, it felt good having Jackson pressed against him like that, both of their mouths open, panting, and a sweet suffocation was taking over him. He couldn’t _breathe_ , he was so wrapped up in Jackson.

All other thought left his brain; he flexed his hands around Jackson’s hips, wanting him even closer, breathing against his mouth, “You’re gonna say all that shit, then _not_ fuck me?”

Jackson kissed him, licked slowly into Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey was more than willing to let him him. “That what you like?” Jackson breathed against him, his hands sliding to hold Mickey’s face, hips rocking down against Mickey; _fuck_. “You like taking it?”

Mickey groaned, his arms snaking around Jackson’s waist, holding him tight. The other man was rocking just barely on him, slow and steady like their kiss. “I can switch, but that’s what I like most, yeah. That okay?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed low against Mickey’s mouth —they kissed again, Mickey leaning into him, soft and slow, and wanting Jackson to completely devour him. Fuck, this was difficult; he was getting so keyed up. “That’s perfect,” Jackson breathed. 

“Good,” he bit at Jackson’s bottom lip.

“Do you know what I mean though?” Jackson asked, dropping slow, soft kisses to Mickey’s swollen lips. “I don’t want you to think I don’t want to —because holy shit, Mickey, I want you so fucking bad. But, I…”

“I got you,” Mickey nodded. “It’s cool, I get it… you’re right. Can we not talk about that anymore though? Tryna kiss you,” he said before he kissed him again. Jackson breathed a half-laugh half-moan against his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, whenever the next chapter happens... prepare yourself.   
> It'll take place a week or so after this chapter, maybe more, idk. We'll see.


	6. This Is It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... let's get this over with.

It was quiet outside, but in his head it was like a hurricane. His shoulders were tense, between his eyes was throbbing with pain, adding onto the countless thoughts and worries that were spinning around. All circling around one person, and not the person that Mickey wanted to be focusing on right now.

He sat on the fire escape, cigarette in hand, staring at that flower shop across the street. He stretched his legs out in front of him —as well as he could— and pulled his cell phone out from the pocket of his hoodie. He dialed Jackson’s number and pressed his phone to his ear, chewing on his bottom lip.

Jackson picked up after a few rings, “Hey babe.”

Mickey snorted, pulling a face, “You just call me babe?”

“Thought I’d try it out,” Jackson explained. “No good?”

Mickey pulled on his cigarette, “Might have to try it a few more times, I dunno.”

“What’re you up to?”

“Nothing,” Mickey sighed. 

There was a pause before Jackson spoke again, “You okay?”

“I, uh,” Mickey began, not knowing how to say what he needed to say —how to ask what he needed to ask. “You busy tomorrow?”

“Nope, it’s my day off,” Jackson replied. “Something going on?”

Mickey nodded, “I’m supposed to be meeting up with —with Ian tomorrow. And…” he sighed, eyes closing. “I dunno, thought maybe you’d wanna hangout or something after.”

Another pause before Jackson said, “Of course.”

“Cool,” Mickey sighed, his shoulders easing down a little.

“You ready for it?”

He shrugged, “Wanna get it over with. Gotta do it, you know? I’m ready, I’m just… haven’t seen him in a long fucking time.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “He coming over to your place?”

“No, he’s coming into the Alibi before it opens,” Mickey said. He sighed again, pulled on his cigarette, wishing Jackson was there with him. He wanted to sit with him and smoke, then kiss and touch, and just _be_ with him.

It had been over two weeks since that first time Mickey went over to Jackson’s place. Between the memory of kissing him for possibly longer than any two humans should ever kiss, moving against each other to the point where Mickey had to slow it down before he embarrassed himself —and hearing that Jackson would wait as long as it took for Mickey to do what he needed to do, because he liked him that much… Mickey was fucking _gone_ on Jackson. 

He was pretty sold on the whole _Mickey and Jackson_ thing. The guy was easy to talk to and understood Mickey, and was fucking patient and all that other shit that felt good —that felt right. Mickey didn’t know if he was feeling too much, too fast, maybe he was. But then Jackson looked at him with that wide smile and kissed him like it was the only thing keeping him alive, and then Mickey didn’t really fucking care if it was too much, too fast.

The window creaked open, shaking Mickey out of his short trance. He looked over to see Yev sticking his head out and holding out a sheet of paper.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone,” Yev said.

“S’okay,” Mickey reached for the paper. “I can still check it.” After Yev ducked back inside, Mickey sighed, looking down at the page.

“Are you checking homework?” The smile in Jackson’s voice was very clear.

Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up, “Yeah —math.”

“That is weirdly attractive,” Jackson said.

He rolled his eyes, “It’s fourth grade math, not that impressive.”

“Eh, doesn’t matter,” Jackson said. “The whole checking your kid’s homework thing —I like that.”

The heat on the back of his neck creeped up to his ears and cheeks, “Fucking nerd.”

Jackson chuckled; it was warm and Mickey could only imagine the way the other man’s mouth spread wide in that grin he loved. “So are you really good at math, or something?”

“I do alright,” Mickey said. He reached over, knocked a couple times on the window and waited for Yev to open it. “Always had an eye for numbers, or some shit.”

Yev opened the window and took his paper back —all good— then closed the window back again. “I’ll uh, see you tomorrow then?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “You going to bed?”

“Gonna try,” Mickey breathed, putting his cigarette out. 

“You should send me a picture.”

Mickey snorted, “Of what?”

“Your face,” Jackson laughed. “I like your face, I wanna see it.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “You’re seeing me tomorrow.”

“So? I wanna see you now —please?”

“Pain in my ass,” Mickey grumbled, lighting up another cigarette. “You know that?”

Jackson breathed a laugh, “You like me though.”

Mickey nodded, grinning a little, “Yeah, _I guess_. You’re okay.”

 

* * *

 

He was nervous —tension shooting up and down his back kind of nervous. Kev was at the other end of the bar as they got the place ready. Mickey wiped down nearly every surface in front of him, cleaning a little too much probably, but if he didn’t he was going to start pacing. Kev was humming to himself, so he focused on that, even though it was kind of annoying.

Mickey checked his phone, and as soon as he did the front door to the bar opened, letting in a gust of cold air. He swallowed hard, jaw clenching, not looking up right away because he wasn’t completely ready to, not yet. The air is crackling with tension, he can feel it radiating off of Ian as well, like he’s nervous too.

Finally, he looks up; his stomach drops, the car battery feeling _click-click-click_ from all the good memories flickering, the resentment bubbling from the bad ones. Kev has stopped humming, but Mickey can still hear him messing with glasses and shit, and honestly it’s kind of comforting, in a way, that he’s still there.

Ian looks good, he always did, he was always beautiful. Wears his hair shorter like when Mickey saw him last, one corner of his mouth is pulled up in somewhat of a sympathetic grin.

The cotton clears out of Mickey’s throat, “Hey.”

Carefully, like he’s approaching a spooked horse or some shit, Ian approaches the bar, taking his big jacket off, but he doesn’t sit down, “Hey.”

They stood and looked at each other for a minute. It was a little awkward, a little weird seeing how Ian had aged in the last nine years. Nothing really that significant, but he did look older than the last time they saw each other. Mickey didn’t know what to say, and didn’t really think he should be the one to speak first.

He watches Ian do that thing where he hesitates to speak, his mouth opening just barely, shoulders tensing a little, before finally the obligatory, “You look good.”

“You too,” Mickey says. "Been a while."

Ian scratches the back of his neck, “Probably should have talked to Svet about getting together sooner but… I just wanted to give you a little time.”

Mickey can feel Kev watching them; he’s stopped whatever he’s doing, and the silence in the bar is overwhelming. Because that statement _give you a little time_ is fucking hilarious in and of itself, but Mickey can’t seem to make himself laugh.

He finds his words, finds himself again —his words are slow as he processes them, “You wanted… to give me some time?”

“Oh boy,” Mickey hears Kev sigh to himself. He agreed.

“Yeah,” Ian says.

Mickey is pretty sure that his eyebrows are close to lifting off of his forehead. The anger on the back burner bubbled and popped. Burned him. "I just spent nine fucking years in prison, and you thought I needed a little more _time_?”

Kev whistles low before he heads to the back to get whatever it is he needs to get.

"I didn't think you'd want to see me right when you got out,” Ian explains.

"Yeah, and why would you think that?” It was a cruel non-question to which both of them knew the answer. Mickey thought maybe he was being kind of a dick, and maybe he was, but the fact was that right at that second, he didn't care. He wanted Ian to say it. He wanted Ian to own up to his part. 

Ian looked down. Sighed. He wouldn't look at Mickey, like it physically pained him to do so. Mickey couldn't help but think _good_ for a split second. He stared at Ian while Ian stared at the back of a barstool. 

"How things ended was fucked up.”

Mickey didn't know what to say, didn't know what he was supposed to say or _not_ supposed to. Part of him wanted to scream at his ex, wanted them to yell at each other until it felt like he'd swallowed glass, to fight until they were broken and bloody. The other part of him didn't want that at all, because it wouldn't help anything. 

The fact was that he didn’t know what to feel, didn’t know how this was supposed to work, what was supposed to happen. But he _did_ know that he was getting irritated, was getting a little worked up from feeling so much and not enough at the same time. So he grabbed a damp rag and came out from behind the bar to needlessly start wiping down the tables, so he could distract himself from doing or saying something stupid.

"I just shut down," Ian said following him, finally looking at Mickey. He gave a helpless shrug, "I was angry, so I shut down and tried to cut you out. Thought it'd be easier that way.”

Mickey snorted an ugly laugh, pulling chairs away from a table, "You were angry because I tried to kill your _precious_ half sister that called fucking MP’s on you? Still on that?”

"No," Ian said, his voice sharp. "I was angry because you got thrown in prison for fifteen years. I felt like you fucked us up forever.”

Mickey wasn’t wiping down the table anymore. His mind went blank; heat trickled down his spine as he repeated Ian’s words over and over in his head. He looked over at the redhead, " _You_ broke up with _me_ , remember? Right before that bitch showed up and started fucking shooting at me —you broke up with me. We were already done.”

“I know,” Ian ran a hand over his hair.

"Don't come here and start spouting bullshit about how you were pissed off because I got locked up —like us being over was _my_ fucking fault.”

"Mick I _was_ mad," Ian said. "I was trying to cut you out and not feel it, but you acted like we were still... you asked me to wait for you. And I _was_ angry at you… and the situation, and myself. I couldn't handle it.”

He was burning up. Hot all over; his hands shook and his eyes were starting to sting, "Maybe I shouldn't have put that on you, but I fucking loved you. I would have done _anything_ for you —I tried to fucking kill someone for you. For _you_ , Ian.”

Ian flushed. Eyes glassy as he shook his head, "I never asked you to do that. Why would you think I would have wanted you to do that, then have them take you away from me? Why would you think that I would want that?”

Mickey sighed, pushing the tears down (angry or sad, he wasn't sure where they were coming from, but they threatened to start spilling), “You still don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” Ian insisted.

“No, you don't. I thought they were gonna lock you up because of that bitch. I didn't give a shit about me so I fucked up, because I didn't care. I… _loved_ you,” Mickey wiped at his blurry eyes; he was too warm and tense and feeling too much, not caring about what came out of his mouth. 

“Mick—” Ian took a step forward.

“Then you threw that in my fucking face, saying shit like I tried to kill your sister? That bitch wasn't _anything_ to you, you didn't care about her. You _don't_ get it —you didn’t get it then, and you don’t fucking get it now.”

"I'm sorry," Ian’s voice was soft, helpless.

The words got choked out on the way, “You were my whole fucking _world_. And I thought that I was…” he couldn't finish, it wouldn't come out.

Ian wiped at his eyes, apologizing again.

Mickey shook his head, tossing his rag on the table. He was exhausted. Looking at Ian, all sad-faced and lost was hard. _This_ was fucking hard. No wonder Ian waited over six months to try to talk to him. All Mickey wanted to do was sleep —just crawl into bed and fucking sleep the rest of the day away; he didn’t want to feel this riled up, he hated the tension in his shoulders, the tension drifting between him and Ian, he just wanted it to stop. 

They'd never get anywhere talking about this shit. Mickey wasn't sure if Ian would ever _honestly_ understand what he was saying. He wasn't sure if it was even important anymore. God, it was so long ago. 

After a few quiet moments, Ian said, “I got my shit straight. Kept up with my meds.”

Micky nodded, but that anger bubbling burned him again, because _that_ was it, right there. He remembered the thing that kept him up at night in his cell, the thing he couldn’t wrap his fucking head around. And just like _that_ , he was back to feeling too much.

“Can you explain to me how you broke up with me because you didn't want to take your meds —but as _soon_ as I get thrown in prison you start taking them?” Mickey asked, honestly not expecting an answer. That would be too easy.

Ian shook his head, arms crossing under his chest, “No, I can’t.”

Mickey huffed a humorless laugh, ripping himself open even more, “Did you ever love me?”

Ian met his eyes, frowning deeply, mouth parting in question, “How can you even ask that?”

“It's kind of hard to know that someone loves you when they have to be paid to see you. Or when they're punching you in the fucking face, and calling you a pussy and a faggot for trying to take care of them,” Mickey said, quieter than he wanted to. He knew how fucking vulnerable and broken he sounded, and he hated it. Everything was just hitting him, and he was remembering so much shit that hurt so much that he couldn't help it. 

“I fucked up a lot, okay? I shouldn't have had to be paid to see you, that was... it was wrong. And I shouldn't have said those things to you, or put my hands on you like that,” Ian said. “I was feeling like shit about myself, and I took it out on you. And I didn't want you to feel like you had to take care of me, but I shouldn't have done that —I’m sorry.”

“I didn't feel like I _had_ to do shit,” Mickey said. “I did it because that's what you do when someone you love needs you. You take care of them because you _want_ to. I _wanted_ to and you threw it in my fucking face. After _all_ that shit we went through, I was still sticking by your side and _none_ of that mattered to you.”

“I’m sorry, Mick,” Ian whispered. “I don’t know what else I can say besides sorry —I can’t make it right. There’s nothing I can do to make it right.”

Sorry wasn’t really what he wanted —then again, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. Ian was right, there really wasn’t anything he could do. “Yeah… I’m sorry too.”

“I did love you,” Ian said, this time his voice strong. 

“Ian…”

“I did,” he said. “From the beginning, I promise, I did. I loved you… sometimes too much.”

Mickey shrugged, feeling helpless, lost at sea, “So what happened?”

There was no answer for that, and Mickey wasn't surprised. It was so long ago, and everything had been so fucked up with them near the end — _especially_ the end. Ian didn’t have an answer, not one that would make it all better at least, Mickey knew that for sure.

“I missed you,” Ian says. “I took advantage of the fact that you loved me. I didn't appreciate it then. I was stupid. I'm sorry I hurt you over and over again. Fuck, I’m so sorry Mick.”

Mickey’s vision is blurry again as he wipes his eyes; looking at Ian with his reddened eyes, and sad face is so fucking hard. He kept seeing his own fist slamming into Ian’s cheek from so  long ago —when he was drunk and trying to deal with the fact that he had to marry Svetlana. He remembered all those times he hurt Ian too. Ian was making that same face now, hurt and soft, and god, he _really_ hated this.

“I know I fucked up too, okay?” Mickey said. “I wasn’t good to you when I should have been—”

“That was before,” Ian interrupted him, taking a step closer. “That was before, okay? Before we were… family, you know? That was before we could be together, for real.”

“I still fucked up.”

“We both did,” Ian said. “Doesn’t make anything better —I ruined our family. That’s on me.”

Mickey sighed, looking down at the floor because it was easier right now. He and Ian, back in the day… they were so fucking intense. Maybe they burned a little too brightly, maybe it was too much Ian and too much Mickey for one relationship to handle. When they were good, they were good. But when they were bad… they were the explosion, the mushroom cloud, and the fallout, all wrapped into one.

“It’s been a long time, Ian. I’ve had time to deal with it... to move on from it.”

It’s quiet for a little longer. Mickey can feel Ian looking at him, but he still can’t look back up at the redhead. His whole body feels like he just ran a marathon, completely emotionally drained, and still feeling too much. He can’t pick out a single emotion to hold onto, can’t decide which one is best.

Then Ian asks, “Are you… are you okay? Since you got out, I mean. I ask Svet all the time, but I know you, so… are you okay?”

Mickey looks at Ian. Glassy eyes. Freckles. Beautiful. That car battery flickers, trying to spring to life _click-click-click._  He nods again, not knowing _why_ , but he says, “I’m seeing someone.”

Ian gives a barely-there smile, a tired one, like he’s drained from all this too, “Yeah?”

Mickey nods his head, “Yeah. I like him.”

“Good,” Ian breathes; wipes at his eyes again. The tip of his nose is red, face flushed. “I’m… I’m happy for you —you deserve that.”

“So do you,” Mickey says. Ian deserved that too.

Ian shrugs, “Maybe. I have my moments.”

He can’t help but ask, “You taking care of yourself?”

The redhead nods, “I am.”

The tension in Mickey’s shoulders eases up just a little bit, “Good. Thanks for sticking around Yev, you know? You were always good to him.”

“I love that kid. Kinda hard not to, he's a good kid,” Ian sighs likes like he’s embarrassed as he as he wipes at his eyes again. “I was scared you'd tell me to stay away from him because he's not mine and we’re not together any—“

“Ian,” Mickey shakes his head. “He _is_ yours too. Always has been. I’m not _that_ much of an asshole to take him away from you. I wouldn’t do that.”

A relieved punch of a laugh leaves Ian as he sniffs and drags his fingers over his eyes, wiping away even more tears, “Thank you.”

He's not sure why he does it but it feels like what they both need. It feels like what he's _supposed_ to do to close this wound. Mickey reaches out and wraps his arms around Ian's shoulders, holding him tight. Ian tenses for a second before relaxing against him, arms folding around him, hugging him back tightly. 

Mickey remembers this feeling. Ian is warm like he always was. It _does_ feel good to hold him again. It _does_ feel good to press his face to his shoulder and breathe him in. Ian pushes his face into the top of Mickey’s shoulder, just like he remembered he did —they always fit together like that. Mickey cups the back of Ian's head, fingers carding through his hair. It's soft. Familiar, but so far away. 

“I loved you, Mick,” Ian says into Mickey’s shoulder. “I swear I did —I loved you.”

Mickey’s eyes well up, stinging. He nods his head, holding on tighter. They stay like that for a little while longer, unlit Ian’s hold loosens along with Mickey’s —until the tension in Mickey’s shoulders eases up a little more, until he can see some light at the end of the tunnel. Then they untangle from each other, and Ian smiles at him, but it’s a little sad. Mickey gives him one back; he’s sad too. All of this… it just sucks, it’s sad —it’s over.

“What’s his name?” Ian asks, “The guy you’re seeing.”

Mickey tries push it down, but he feels this lift in his chest at the mention of this new guy in his life with the wide smile, and curled dark hair, and dark eyes, and a fucking Dumbledore tattoo, “Jackson.”

“Jackson,” Ian repeats, nodding. “He’s good to you —makes you happy?”

Mickey sniffs, “Yeah.”

“He better,” Ian says, lightly.

Mickey breathes a laugh, again some tension easing away, “You seeing anyone?”

“I was for a while,” Ian sighs. “Not anymore though —apparently I’m kind of a handful.”

While he’s wiping at his eyes, Mickey punches out an _honest_ laugh; Ian laughs with him, “A little bit.”

It’s quiet for a few moments again before Ian says, “I’ll… let you go, so you can get back to work.”

Mickey’s not working today, but he doesn’t correct Ian. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Thanks for seeing me,” Ian shrugs. “Didn’t have to.”

“I did,” Mickey said. “I needed to…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, because they both know. He needed to let Ian go —and Ian needed to let him go. Properly. It’s been long enough.

Ian smiles. He cups Mickey’s cheek with his hand for a second before letting it fall back to his side. His skin was warm —again distantly familiar. “This is it, huh?”

Mickey nods, eyes stinging for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning, “Yeah.”

Then Ian leans forward, and Mickey doesn’t step back away from him. Because this _is_ it. Ian presses his lips to Mickey’s. Soft. Simple. He kisses him goodbye. Mickey kisses him back, just as soft and simply. The car battery that used to roar to life when Ian kissed him is  cold; it clicks one last time before it dies.

Ian gives Mickey space, sad smile still on his lips, “Jackson’s a lucky guy.”

Mickey gives a lopsided grin, “I dunno about all that.”

“I do,” Ian says, shrugging his jacket back on. “Take care of yourself, Mick.”

He nods, “You too.”

Then Ian was gone. Mickey wipes at his eyes one last time —they’re tender now, probably all red. He took a deep breath, standing alone in the Alibi, then nodded to himself. That was it, that was how it wrapped up —not the tattoo, not totally. And it was okay. _He_ was okay, he survived it.

Mickey felt something inside of him close up, he felt like something that had been festering had been removed. He’d always have that space for Ian in his heart, he didn’t think that would ever go away —first loves, you know? But the bad taste was out of his mouth now. The wound was closed up and scarred over now.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Mickey walked into Jackson’s apartment, he had arms wrapping around him. Mickey held onto Jackson, feeling his chest warm as he breathed him in. They didn’t say anything. Jackson just stood there with him, holding him in the hallway, head turning just enough to press his lips to Mickey’s cheek. It felt so good, Jackson felt so good, so right.

“What do you need?” Jackson said softly, kissing his cheek again.

“Just tired,” Mickey murmured. “M’drained.”

Jackson nodded, letting Mickey go, his fingers moving to the zipper of his jacket, taking it off, letting it fall to the floor behind Mickey. He took Mickey’s hand and lead him further into his apartment, past the living room, closing the bedroom door behind them.

His room didn’t have great lighting, but that was good right now. He had a nice looking bed —those dark blue sheets and mismatched pillows, a grey blanket on top. Jackson slipped his hands under Mickey’s shirt, pulling it gently over his head. Mickey couldn’t help but give him a sleepy smile, letting his mind go completely blank, letting Jackson take over and take care of him. He knew Jackson liked to do this shit anyways, it was his thing —taking care of people… of Mickey.

“Can I?” Jackson asked, his fingers resting on Mickey’s belt buckle. 

Mickey swallowed, then nodded. He was too tired to get all keyed up by Jackson undressing him, but it didn’t escape him that it was happening. Jackson’s fingers worked his belt open, slipping it from the loops, letting it fall to the floor with his discarded shirt. Mickey couldn’t help but give him a little smirk when he went for the button of his fly.

“Thought you’d wanna be comfortable,” Jackson said softly, smirking back at him.

“Uh-huh,” Mickey quirked an eyebrow at him, teasing him.

The other man leaned forward a little, pressing his lips to Mickey’s as he pushed his jeans down. Mickey sighed into him, going for his shirt, pulling at it. They kissed soft like that while finishing undressing each other down to their boxers, just little meetings of lips, hands gently skimming over arms and backs. Mickey thought that the other man was beautiful, but he’d have time to appreciate his body later, to explore and investigate the other tattoos inked into Jackson’s skin. Right now he was too numb from feeling too much, too tired.

Then Jackson pulled Mickey onto his bed —it was so comfortable, and he sank into the mattress, under the covers, immediately. Without really thinking, Mickey turned to lay on his belly, the fleeting concern of being in such a vulnerable position not even registering, because there was no reason for it —he was in a safe space, trusted this man. Jackson settled down beside him, hand running up and down the length of Mickey’s spine.

He kissed the back of Mickey's shoulder and whispered, "I got you," which only made Mickey relax more, because he believed him. Jackson  was so warm next to him, against him, and his hand felt so fucking good. Mickey focused on those things, on Jackson, being with Jackson, until he quickly fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not done with this fic by a long shot, but I just wanted to take a minute to thank all of the love and support. Thank you so much for sticking with this and loving Mickey and Jackson together. I'm so in love with them right now, I keep working on them instead of my other projects and fics that I should be focusing on, but I wanted to get this chapter specifically out of the way. 
> 
> I think I'm decently happy with the closure scene *shrug*. It was particularly hard because of how Ian has been written lately, and Mickey not knowing what Ian had been saying about him etc, I had to make sense out of nonsense -always _fun_. And it was hard because like... it's over between them, in this fic so *sigh* yeah. While I love Mickey and Jackson, I am still very sad (but I'm very sad in general about Ian and Mickey tho tbh).
> 
> But anyway, I need to work on TBE and my big bang because they've been seriously neglected. So I'm going to work on those for a bit, try to get a couple chaps of TBE out... so this for maybe a week, is going on the back burner. I'll have something reaaalllly good (hopefully lol) for the next chapter of this story! I love you all! Xx


	7. Eyes Open Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *things* are happening

There was a light scratching noise when Mickey slowly came around to consciousness. For a moment, he forgot whose bed he was in, but after inhaling the scent of the pillow pressed against his face, he relaxed again. The light scratching continued, trying to lull him back to sleep, until Mickey finally opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness, turning his head so he could see Jackson there, sitting next to him in bed, scribbling away in a notebook. Mickey couldn’t tell if he was drawing or writing, but judging by the look of the notebook, he was drawing.

“Ay,” Mickey’s voice was still thick with sleep.

Jackson looked up from his notebook and grinned, setting it aside. He slid down next to Mickey, laying on his back, “Sleep well?”

Mickey nodded, stretching out on his belly before propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at the other man. He felt a little embarrassed by all of this, “Yeah… thanks.”

Jackson shrugged, “No problem.”

They were quiet for a little while, just looking at each other. Mickey didn’t really know what to say or do, at that point. Jackson’s bed was _so_ comfortable, and his sheets were _so_ nice, and Jackson looked _so_ fucking good. His hair was a mess, curls a little fuzzy and everywhere, his whole face soft and patient.

“If you wanna talk about it, you can, that’s cool,” Jackson said gently. “If you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s cool too.”

Mickey nodded; he didn’t really want to talk about it, mostly because he didn’t know what to say. He leaned his weight on one elbow, reaching over with his other hand to place at the base of Jackson’s throat, then sliding his it around to the side of his neck, slipping his fingers into his hairline. Jackson’s eyes fluttered shut; he sighed slow, his own hand coming up to brush his fingers along the bend of Mickey’s elbow.

Yeah, he didn’t know what to say about the conversation with Ian. But also… he just wanted to be with _Jackson_ right now. He didn’t want to think about anything or anyone else. 

“Nothing to really say,” Mickey decided on. 

“You alright?”

Mickey gave him a soft smile, because he was alright —more alright than he thought he’d be after seeing Ian. It felt like a soft liberation, almost. All of that was behind him now -and maybe it was a little too optimistic to think like that, but right now, there was Jackson in bed, it's how he felt, “Yeah. Yeah, I'm good.”

“C’mere,” Jackson whispered.

Mickey moved, turning his body so he could lay down on his side, while Jackson did the same, so they were facing each other. He felt really _quiet_ , and comfortable, in Jackson’s bed, looking at him like this, barely touching. Then the other man reached out and pulled Mickey closer, slotting their legs together while he pressed a soft kiss to Mickey’s lips.

Mickey exhaled slow, his body melting into the mattress, barely kissing Jackson back —but not because he didn’t want to. He did, he absolutely did. Something just happened to his body when Jackson kissed him like that. It was a complete and utter surrender that should have scared the shit out of Mickey. But it didn’t.

He draped his arm around Jackson’s side as the same was done to him. Jackson pressed another soft kiss to Mickey’s lips. One corner, then the other. Mickey’s eyes closed, trying not to get caught up in this too much, trying to hold onto his wits, but it wasn’t working. 

It felt so good, and soft, and here was this man… this really fucking cool, charming, smiley man that liked _him_. And this man kissed him soft, and touched him with careful hands when he needed it; he _knew_ Mickey like that, knew when he needed that softness. 

And Mickey never really thought of himself as fragile, and didn’t think of himself as that now, but it was just really… nice. It relaxed him, made him feel safe, because he was with someone who just _knew_ , without Mickey having to say a fucking _word_. 

Jackson’s body was warm, his skin was soft against Mickey’s. He traced the tips of his fingers across the skin of Jackson’s back, making him breathe heavy against Mickey’s mouth, kissing him soft still, dropping them over and over across his lips. Slow yet intensely intimate presses of lips, hands coming to touch the side of Mickey’s face, and to touch his hair. 

He felt blurry and boneless, kissing Jackson back, pulling him closer until they were flush against each other. Jackson licked into his mouth, and Mickey let him in, tasting him as well. That warmth sliding against his tongue making every other part of him heat and tingle. Mickey gripped Jackson, pulling him as he rolled to his back, pulling Jackson on top of him. 

Jackson grinned against his mouth, settling over him. He kissed him harder as Mickey’s hands searched over his back, up and down, gripping his sides, his hips, palming his ass over his boxers, pulling him against him more. 

Mickey gasped in a deep breath of air when Jackson started trailing his kisses away from his mouth, working along his jaw, to his neck; he moved so their legs were slotted between each others again, pressing against Mickey’s hip as he mouthed at a spot just below his ear.

There was no telling how long Mickey laid there, touching everywhere he could reach, catching Jackson’s lips again here and there, kissing him until he couldn’t breathe. They moved against each other, pressing close; Jackson’s mouth was right against Mickey’s ear as he rocked against his hip. Soft noises came out of Mickey’s throat —heavy breaths and grunts as he slipped further inside this bubble of _MickeyJackson_.

“You sound so good,” Jackson said softly against his ear.

His hand slipped between their bodies and when it palmed over Mickey’s clothed erection, his eyes rolled back, head pushing back against the pillow. His breath was harsh and loud as Jackson moved his hand over his boxers, cupping and stroking him. It was perfect, echoing through Mickey’s entire body. His arms fell helplessly on either side of him, fingers clutching roughly at the sheets until they ached.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Mickey mumbled.

“Yeah?” A smile shone through Jackson’s voice as he spoke against Mickey’s skin.

Mickey’s hips rocked up against the other man’s hand, “Yeah —yeah… fucking good…”

“I can make it better,” while Jackson mouthed at Mickey’s neck, kissing and licking and biting at his skin, he took his hand away from Mickey’s boxers. It was okay though, because Mickey let out a low whine when Jackson hit a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, then took full advantage of that spot, getting Mickey even more keyed up. 

He barely heard what sounded like a drawer opening up next to them. Then Jackson paused for a second, looking over at his nightstand, then immediately went back to Mickey’s neck.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Jackson said, breathless, as he slipped his hand into Mickey’s boxers to wrap around him; he bit softly at the lobe of Mickey’s ear, then kissed him right behind it. His hand was slick, sliding tight and easily around Mickey and _holy fucking shit_ , he wasn’t going to last very long.

“Like a fucking glove,” Jackson said softly against his ear. “God, you feel good.”

“Oh fuck,” Mickey finally found his bearings again, grabbing the sides of Jackson’s face, directing him into a hard kiss. His breathing was hard and desperate, barely able to get the words out around his grunts and that sweet static filling his head, “Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

As Jackson worked him —worked him so fucking good too, Mickey didn’t know a fucking _handjob_ could be quite this good— he pressed his forehead against Mickey’s. “Open your eyes.”

He honestly didn’t realize his eyes were clenched shut. He was so hot all over and vibrating, pulsing with how good Jackson’s touch felt; it was almost too much. Mickey forced his eyes open, staring into two dark ones. God, it was overwhelming, the way Jackson looked at him, the way he touched him. 

It was just them, only them right there —the rest of the world was fucking gone, and Mickey got pulled down into this sweet abyss. He held his breath, his body tensing. Fuck, it was happening; his eyes threatened to close again. It was hard to keep them open.

“M’gonna,” Mickey panted roughly, forcing his eyes to stay open, focusing on Jackson’s eyes. “J, fuck, I’m…”

“I got you,” Jackson breathed. “Just keep your eyes on mine.”

Mickey nodded, short and fast, over and over again, letting out a long breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He punched out dumb breathy noises, hips rocking up into Jackson’s hold, grabbing at him, touching him wherever he could. The other man urged him on, pushing him closer to the edge, urging him to keep his eyes open.

When it hit, it hit hard. Painful sounding grunts, one after another, fell out of Mickey’s mouth as he came into Jackson’s hand. He didn’t tear his eyes off of Jackson’s the entire time, wrapped up in the way the other man looked at him while he came. Jackson’s mouth was dropped open, his brows raising a little as he spoke softly to Mickey, urging him on through until Mickey fell limp against the bed, chest heaving deeply and mind completely and utterly _blank_.

Then as Mickey came down from that momentary high, more soft, devastatingly slow kisses were dragged over his mouth and jaw. Jackson slipped his hand out of his boxers, kissed his lips one more time, then disappeared for a moment, leaving Mickey tingly and worn out under the covers. 

He stared up at the white ceiling of Jackson’s bedroom, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a half smile. “Fuck,” he whispered into the silence, wetting his lips, catching the last bits of his breath.

The bed dipped next to him, and Mickey smirked when Jackson’s face popped into his vision, grinning down at him, “What?” he asked, teasing him.

Mickey breathed a laugh, reaching up for the other man, pulling him down against them, their mouths melding together as Mickey rolled them. He straddled Jackson’s lap, slowing their kiss down, holding Jackson’s hands above his head. 

Mickey kissed him like he’d been kissed before —slow and soft, trying to make Jackson feel what he felt before, wanting him to relax and have his body give up like his had before. It must have worked, because Jackson went from kissing him with vigor, to having a soft, breathless mouth under Mickey’s.

He couldn’t stop kissing him, didn’t want to _ever_ stop. His lips were tender and he was sure that his chin and cheeks and neck were burned from stubble, but it felt too good, this —all of this— felt too good for him to care about any of that.

Slowly, he ended the kiss though, his jaw was aching and he had a feeling that if he didn’t, there’d be no way in hell they’d ever leave Jackson’s room —which was a really tempting thought. Mickey released the other man’s hands, rolling off of him, laying on his back next to Jackson, so both of them were now staring up at the ceiling.

Jackson brought his hands down to his sides, and ran the back of his fingers over Mickey’s hand before Mickey turned it over, letting their fingers slip between each other. With a little grin up towards the ceiling, Mickey got warm all over, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the back of Jackson’s hand. He liked this. He liked Jackson.

“Got a question for you,” Jackson said quietly.

“Hm?”

“Tonight everyone from the shop is meeting at the pizza place,” Jackson said quietly. “And I was wondering if you wanted to go with me? Then uh… you know, we could come back here. Or, if you don’t feel like going out, I can skip it. It’s not a big deal.”

Mickey turned his head so he could look at Jackson. He arched a brow, a little twist in his belly, “Come back here?”

Jackson was looking back at him. He grinned, “Stay over, you know? If you want to, I mean.”

He didn’t even have to think about it. Mickey nodded, “I’d like that.”

The other man let out a relieved breath, “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

The sun is falling, leaving the sky dim pinks and dark blues. The parking lot is surprisingly sparse for a Thursday night, and the giant T of _Antonio’s_ is flickering above the entrance of the pizza place.

Jackson reaches for Mickey’s hand as they walk away from Jackson’s car. And for half of a second, Mickey has a slight freak-out, because he forgets. He forgets that it’s okay, and that _he’s_ okay, and that Terry’s been dead for a while now. He forgets that he’s a grown ass man, able to do whatever the fuck he wants. For half a second, his heart drops to his stomach and his shoulders feel like they’ve been attached to a metal rod. For half a second, he’s a scared to death seventeen year old kid again.

But then fingers slide between his, anchoring him, and he remembers... and he’s okay. He looks over at Jackson quickly, bumps their shoulders together, getting the other man to look back at him and smile that wide smile that makes Mickey’s stomach do that stupid flutter.

He’s met Delia, he knows that she’s going to be there, and he’s seen a couple of the guys that Jackson works with. But he’s never met them before. A few times he’s heard about them though. There’s Omar, an older guy who was basically Jackson’s mentor when he was learning about the business, he’s somewhat of an uncle-figure to Jackson. Then Elias —quiet and the newest tattoo artist in the shop. There’s only one female tattoo artist among them, but she’s also a piercer; Lauren. 

Mickey’s not really all that nervous to meet them. He’s not the best at the whole social thing at first, but he settles in. Besides, he knows they’re all South Side too, and that makes things easier. No one is gonna look at him like they can still smell prison stink lingering on his skin —hopefully, at least. Mickey trusts Jackson, and _he_ says they’re cool, so they must be.

There’s only one person he’s nervous about meeting. Mickey hasn’t heard _every single thing_ about Benny, but he’s heard enough to know that he’s Jackson’s _best_ friend, he’s a little protective of Jackson, and he’s done most of Jackson’s ink —and Jackson’s done a good deal of his. Benny is basically a fucking brother to him; they met when Jackson first started apprenticing under Omar.

Mickey’s taken a little off guard when a man with a serious throat tattoo comes up to them and grabs Jackson’s face with his heavily tattooed hands. Mickey drops his hold on Jackson’s hand, his mouth opening to say something. His fist curling hard by his side, ready to take care of this fucker. But then Throat Tattoo lays a smacking kiss right to Jackson’s laughing lips before gathering him in a bruising hug. What… the fuck.

“Haven’t seen you in a _while_ , motherfucker,” Throat Tattoo grins, grabbing Jackson’s face again to look at him. He’s tall —like probably six foot, something like that, and lean, but he’s got one of those pretty-boy faces, that contrasts starkly with the ink on his skin. “Where the fuck you been?”

“I’ve been around, _you’re_ the one fucking leaving all the time,” Jackson replied, tugging Throat Tattoo’s hand off of his face (Mickey remembers Jackson saying something about Benny working at two shops from month to month, one in South Side, one in North Side). 

Jackson smiles wide at this new guy and Mickey feels a little twist in his chest, because he’s put two and two together that this _is_ Benny, but part of him wonders if they were ever together. Jackson had said that Benny was straight, but _Mickey_ sure as fuck doesn't go around kissing his friends like that —actually, he doesn’t kiss his friends in _any_ capacity.

Mickey stands up a little straighter when Benny nods in his direction, trying _not_ to clench his jaw and act like a fucking asshole when there’s no reason to act like one. The guy gives Mickey a quick once-over. There’s no sharpness to his eyes or voice when he asks, “Who’s this?” 

Jackson beams at Mickey, and that’s when the tension in his belly eases up a little bit; Jackson reaches for Mickey’s shoulder, pulling him closer, “This is Mickey —Mickey, Benny.”

“Ah,” Benny drags the sound out a little in understanding as he nods, “Mickey.” He offers his hand to shake, so Mickey does. Benny’s handshake is strong, and he pulls Mickey towards him, wrapping his arm around to pat him on the back. “ _The_ Mickey,” Benny grins like a wolf, “nice to meet you, man.”

Finally Mickey finds his voice; he nods, “You too.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey can’t remember the last time he hung out with a group of people like this —eating pizza, drinking beer, laughing… actually, he can’t really remember if he’s _ever_ done this. There’s nine people total, and almost everyone is talking at once. He thought for sure that he’d be uncomfortable at first, but with Jackson reaching under the table for his hand, slotting their fingers between each other, he’s okay.

Omar is a big guy with graying hair and tribal designs tattooed up his arms —shit that used to be really popular, but isn’t so much anymore. It still looks cool though. He sits at the head of the two tables pushed together, like a Sultan flanked by Delia and Lauren. The girls mostly talk to amongst themselves or Delia’s boyfriend, giving each other that look that sometimes Vee and Svetlana give each other when a drunk customer at the Alibi is talking. A silent two-second conversation: _you’re hearing this shit, right?_ And then, _yeah I’m hearing this shit._

Though he’s not uncomfortable, Mickey knows he’s quiet, taking everything and everyone in. Benny is loud, sitting next to Jackson —throwing his arm around his shoulders and messing up his curls. Mickey has to remind himself _when I’m with someone I’m with them_ , those words that Jackson told him. 

He has to remind himself that Benny is straight, is obviously just affectionate. The guy hasn’t been anything but pleasant to Mickey, so there’s no fucking reason to fly off the handle. But Benny keeps fucking touching Jackson, and making him laugh, and there’s that old monster starting to wake up inside of Mickey. He keeps imagining reaching over to snap each of Benny’s tattooed fingers. And it’s not even remotely fair, because Benny honestly isn’t technically doing anything wrong except for being himself. 

The _truth_ is that Benny hugs everyone. He _touches_ everyone —reaches across the table to grab the sides of Elias’ face to teasingly call him _beautiful boy_  (which seems to be endlessly amusing to Elias' wife), or leans over to wrap his long arms around Lauren’s shoulders; he’s even reached behind Jackson to grip onto Mickey’s shoulder while asking him if he wanted more beer. The truth is that Benny seems like a really nice person, and Mickey is sitting there being a dick, quietly, to himself. But he just… maybe it’s just old scars itching at him, but he doesn’t like other people touching people he’s with. Maybe that’s childish, and weird, and possessive.

“You okay?” Jackson’s leaned over next to Mickey’s ear, talking low. 

For that short moment, suddenly it’s just Mickey and Jackson, all the rest faded back. Mickey nods, taking a sip of his beer, “Yeah, man.”

“We can get the fuck out of here, if you want,” Jackson said. His dark eyes look everywhere on Mickey’s face before they linger on his mouth. "I know they're loud."

Mickey goes hot on the back of his neck. He’s had two and a half beers, not nearly enough to get him drunk, but he’s feeling a little something. And with Jackson looking at his mouth like that, all he wants to do is drag him into the nearest bathroom and return the favor from earlier today.

He should probably get some air, “Just need a smoke.”

Jackson nods, “Want company?”

Mickey shakes his head, he puts his hand on Jackson’s thigh, squeezing a little, “Nah, you stay. I’m good.”

Predictably, it’s freezing outside. Mickey leans up against the brick side of the building, flicking his lighter a few times before it lights his cigarette. He inhales deep, soaking in the quiet. He doesn’t want to act like an ass in front of Jackson and ruin everything. Mickey doesn’t want to think about Ian, though it’s hard not to because that shit just happened today.

After sleeping it off, he _did_ feel a lot better. He didn’t feel like there was this heavy weight in his gut, he didn’t feel like there was anything unfinished. Maybe it was too easy, but after nine years, maybe whatever was said was exactly what was needed to be said. He’d probably never know for sure —but what he did know was that the only person he wanted to be with now was Jackson. Mickey let the corner of his mouth lift up a little bit. Jackson. He really fucking liked him.

“You got a light?”

Mickey suppressed a sigh when he looked over to see Benny standing there with a cigarette hanging from his lips. But he nodded and fished the lighter from his pocket, flicking it to life in front of the taller man.

“Nice ink,” Benny said around his cigarette, nodding to Mickey’s hands. “Jack said he did a cover-up for you?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, turned out good.”

“What’d you get covered up?”

Mickey shifted from foot to foot for a second before answering, “A name.”

The other man nodded in understanding while he exhaled a cloud of smoke. They stood there for a minute before Benny spoke again, “So, Jack likes you. A lot.”

Mickey arches a brow at Benny and pockets his lighter, “This the _don’t hurt my friend_ speech?”

Benny gave him that wolfish grin like when they first met, “Not yet.” Mickey watched the other man as he took another drag from his cigarette. Benny scratched the back of his neck, tilting his head from side to side like he was trying to put whatever words he needed to together, “Dunno if you know this about Jack, but he could be going up in flames, and he wouldn’t ask for a damn thing.”

Mickey frowned, “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jack was a latch-key kid since he could make a bowl of cereal,” Benny explained. “Ain’t nothing new to guys like us, but he didn’t have brothers and sisters, or cousins... no other family; he was alone. He’s been on his own his whole life —when his mom wasn’t working all day, she was locked in her room, trying get in some sleep.”

Mickey nodded, knowing all of this already.

“He takes care of himself, and he takes care of other people,” Benny said. “S’how he is.”

Again, Mickey nodded, getting a little irritated, but not knowing why, “You going somewhere with this?”

Benny breathed a laugh, like he’d been expecting that. “My point is that he won’t ever ask you for help. But he needs someone to take care of him too, okay? You gotta kind of be a fucking mind-reader with him sometimes.”

Mickey pulled on his cigarette, repeating Benny’s words a few times in his head. “You think I can’t be there for him?”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Benny shook his head. “It’s just a heads up… a little advice from best friend to boyfriend. He doesn’t need to be taken care of like _that_ , but sometimes he just needs to know that he’s not a latch-key kid anymore. You know what I mean?”

Mickey’s stomach dropped when Benny said _boyfriend_. He and Jackson hadn’t talked about that —was it something that people had a conversation about though? Do people sit down with each other and hammer out labels for each other? “Yeah,” he said.

“Alright,” Benny sighed a grin. He took one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and stomping it out, hand coming down on Mickey’s shoulder, squeezing him tightly, “Also, don’t fucking hurt him, okay? He’s a good guy.”

Mickey nodded, the corner of his mouth tilting up, as they headed back inside; Benny patted Mickey on the back as they walked back to the tables, giving Jackson a little wink as they sat down.

Jackson leaned over to Mickey, hand slipping into his, his mouth hovering close to his ear, “You scared off yet?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, squeezing Jackson’s hand a little, “Not yet.”

Jackson grinned, pressing his lips to Mickey’s cheek, “Good. I'd like it if you stuck around for a while.”

"That right?" Mickey felt heat in his cheeks.

Again, Jackson pressed a kiss to Mickey's cheek, "That's right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benny's fc is Jimmy Q :)  
> I have no idea if there's an Antonio's in Chicago that has deep dish... there probably is lmao


	8. Like A Glove Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna get that good good  
> Had to up the rating lmao

He hesitated for only a second before his wants took over his awareness that they were in a hallway where someone could walk by. While Jackson was unlocking his apartment door, Mickey pressed behind him, ghosting his lips across the back of his neck, hands curling around his hips. Jackson sighed softly, head tilting down a little, giving Mickey more access to kiss up the ridge of his neck, arms snaking around his waist.

Jackson felt so good in his arms. Mickey heard the soft sounds of the front door opening; he didn’t detach from the other man, just gently guided him forward into the apartment, kicking it closed with his foot once they were inside, taking one arm from around Jackson to quickly lock it. His mouth watered as he pushed Jackson against the wall, working his mouth along the crook of his neck.

“Shit,” Jackson sighed, hand reaching back to bury into Mickey’s hair. Mickey pressed his hips forward, pushing Jackson into the wall more, his own sigh leaving his throat at the feel of fingers gently scraping against his scalp.

God, he felt so fucking good; they lined up perfectly. Mickey slipped his hand between Jackson and the wall, cupping the front of his jeans, feeling him hardening from the touch. His hips rocked against Jackson’s ass, trying to chase that pressure, trying to ease the ache that settled low in his gut. That need. He _needed_ Jackson, needed him so fucking bad.

Mickey brought his other hand between Jackson and the wall, blindly tugging at his jeans, opening them; he scraped his teeth against his neck, drawing out a perfect moan from the other man.

Once Mickey got Jackson’s pants open, he turned him around, sealing their lips together, kissing him hard. Jackson gasped against his mouth, and it sent a thrill up Mickey’s spine. He tasted right. He felt right. All of this was _right_.

Without a word, Mickey sunk to his knees in front of Jackson, looking up into dark eyes, a flushed face, all that hair messed up on top of his head. It all slowed down for a second; Mickey looked up at Jackson for a moment, taking him in, feeling the hard floor under his knees, the scratchy texture of the denim under his hands as he slid them up Jackson’s legs, up until he got to the belt and open waist. 

Jackson was breathing hard, looking down at him. Mickey hooked his fingers under the jeans and band of Jackson’s boxers. He wet his lips, “Can I?” 

The other man groaned, low and drawn out, his hips pressing forward just barely; he reached for Mickey’s face, cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing his bottom lip until Mickey opened up for him, letting the digit slip into his mouth. Jackson didn't have to say anything, Mickey sucked, letting his mind go blank. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he gave himself over like this. Part of him was fucking terrified, because he was so willing to give Jackson this, _all_ of this, all of _him_. He wanted Jackson to take over his whole fucking being, and he wanted to do the same to him. But that terrified part was so far away, so drowned out by how much he _wanted_ , how much he _needed_.

He forgot it could be _good_ like this. He forgot that sex didn’t have to be what it was for nine years —he doesn't think about that now, _especially_ now. He forgot that it didn’t have to be quick and impersonal in dirty club bathrooms, or in stinking alleyways. The rest of the world shut off. Mickey let it fall away, he left _everything_ fall away.

Jackson slipped his thumb from his mouth. Mickey exhaled hard and, “Please,” came out, breathy and wanting.

Dark eyes looked down at him for a moment before Jackson reached down and pulled Mickey to stand, kissing him softly, licking into his mouth while he moved them, walking Mickey deeper into the apartment.

“Please,” Mickey whispered again, because he felt like his skin was going to crawl off of his body. He felt like he was going to burst into flames, or die, or never feel okay again. It was so overwhelming — _Jackson_ was so overwhelming. 

He heard the bedroom door close, and felt the edge of the bed hit the back of his knees. Mickey sat down, spreading his legs a little so Jackson could settle between them. Once more, he reached for the open waist of his jeans, the band of his boxers, looking up at the other man, looking for something, some kind of go-ahead. 

Then he got it, a little grin from Jackson, a little nod. Mickey could swear that he saw his cheeks tinge pink too, but he was focused on tugging Jackson’s pants down, eager to see and touch and taste.

Jackson looked, and felt, and tasted _right_. Hot and heavy inside Mickey’s mouth, stretching his jaw open. Mickey listened to the soft sounds leaving Jackson’s lips, he sucked air in sharply and let it out slowly, broken breath. There were fingers in Mickey’s hair, dancing down the back of his neck, searching along the line of his jaw, down the column of his throat. 

“Fuck,” Jackson breathed. “Can I see your eyes?” Mickey opened his eyes, and Jackson punched out a heavy breath, “I love your eyes. So fucking pretty.”

Mickey drew him deep, deeply as he could, loving the way Jackson’s hips stuttered and the way his fingers curled into his hair, tugging at it. Mickey touched everywhere he could, drawing this out, wanting it to last, wanting it to be good for the other man.

“Oh my god,” Jackson’s voice strained, but was still soft. “Fuck, Mickey.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey settled under the covers, getting comfortable as he waited for Jackson to get back into bed (he was feeding the gargoyle). He felt… really good. Really fucking good. Better than he had in a long time. He could still taste Jackson on his tongue, could still hear how he cursed loud and let go for Mickey. It made his skin grow hot, thinking about it, made him anxious in the best way.

Jackson came back into the bedroom with a pile of blankets in his arms, dropping them at the end of the bed. There were three big ones that he unfolded and laid on top of the bed. Mickey frowned at the blankets while propped up on one elbow; he watched Jackson grin at him before going to the windows and opening them up.

Cold air immediately bled into the bedroom, and Mickey frowned deeper, “What… the fuck’re you doing?”

Jackson quirked an eyebrow at him and smirked, slipping into bed with Mickey. He pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Trust me.”

“Trust you… to freeze me to death?”

“You’re not gonna freeze to death,” Jackson rolled his eyes. He scooted close and tangled their legs together, “It’s nice.”

Mickey was doubtful, but he grinned as Jackson pulled him close. He brought his hand up to the dark curls settled on top of the other man’s head, carding his fingers through them, feeling the texture; soft, but thick. They stay there for a while like that, in the quiet. Jackson’s eyes flutter closed from Mickey’s touch, and it’s kind of the best feeling in the world.

“A lot of times during the winter, my old man didn’t pay for heat. But we didn’t have all these blankets, so we had to layer up every night. Got so fucking cold in that house.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but it’s out there already. Jackson’s room filled up fast with the cold and, he feels it on his cheeks, but he’s warm under the blankets, body heat pressed against him.

Jackson’s face falls a little, “I’ll close the windows.”

Shit. Mickey shakes his head, “No, it’s okay. I didn’t have anyone to, you know, keep me warm like this, so…”

“You’re sure?”

He nods, “Yeah. This is actually kind of nice.”

Jackson smiles wide, his fingers brushing over Mickey’s back, “Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get cocky,” Mickey rolls his eyes.

“You like it,” Jackson pushed forward, kissing Mickey as his hand wandered down to grab his ass. 

Mickey kissed him back, the hand that was in his hair slipping down to the side of his neck, thumb brushing over his jaw. Jackson’s scruff scratched his chin and around his lips, but it was oddly comforting. The other man tasted so good, and how his tongue slid against his was fucking addictive.

They laid there for a little while. It was late, and Mickey closed his eyes, but he was no where near tired. Outside of the blankets was freezing now, but under with Jackson, tangled up, skin to skin, was warm. Mickey traced over the tattoo on Jackson’s upper arm. An odd drawing that could have easily looked like complete chaos. He traced over the many lines, trying to figure out if it was a person with several arms and legs, or… something else entirely. It was cool, but weird. Like Jackson.

“Jean Cocteau,” Jackson murmured, his fingers flexing against Mickey’s back.

“I… don’t know what that is,” Mickey admitted.

“He was this French guy —artist, writer, filmmaker… he did a bunch of shit,” Jackson explained. “My mom’s mom was French. I never met her, she died before I was born, but she left my mom her things, and she had movies and books and shit by him. I couldn’t understand a fucking word of it, but it was cool.”

Mickey nodded, continuing to trace over the solid lines, “This is one of his?”

“Yeah,” Jackson said with a laugh. “I went to the library when I was younger, and I looked him up on one of their shitty computers. But I found pictures of all these really _graphic_ erotic drawings he used to make. And a lot of them were of men fucking or touching themselves or each other. Cocteau was bi; I didn’t even know what that was until that day. I just thought I was confused or something. Couldn’t ask anyone about it, you know?”

“Oh fuck,” the corner of Mickey’s mouth pulled up in a half grin. “So that’s when you figured that shit out?”

“Mmhm,” Jackson nodded. “I was sitting there… ten, eleven years old in the library, with drawings of men fucking on the computer screen, first time seeing _anything_ like that —I didn’t know men did that shit, not _really_ , you know. But I was thinking about it, about _real_ bodies doing that, and I got _so_ fucking hard,” he laughed. “Just like when I found straight porn in my mom’s closet and looked at it. It just clicked. I swear to god, it was like fate or something.”

Mickey breathed a laugh while he listened to Jackson.

“So that was my moment of clarity, I guess,” Jackson said. “And while it clicked, I was scrolling down the page, because I didn’t want to get caught, you know? And I stopped on this drawing because I really liked it. I dunno what it’s supposed to _really_ represent, but to me it was that moment of _knowing_. So I printed that shit out, shoved it in my pocket and held onto it ever since.”

After a beat, Jackson asked, “When did you know?”

Maybe because it had been so long (and Terry was gone now), but Mickey didn’t get all tense about it so much anymore, not really. Of course there was a tightness in his belly when he thought about all of that, probably because a lot of shitty things happened -there was so much baggage attached to his sexuality. But he just didn’t talk about it anymore because there was really no point, in his opinion. Regardless of all that, it was too heavy for this moment right now, it wasn’t the right time —there were far too many factors to _that_. 

“Tell you another time?” he suggested.

Jackson nodded, “Whenever you want, no rush.”

By now, Mickey wasn’t tracing over the lines of Jackson’s tattoo anymore. Their hands were between them; Jackson running his fingers over Mickey’s, just playing and touching. Mickey felt that heavy wall trying to remind him to build it, but he didn’t. He was _relaxed_. And it was stupid that they were laying there doing this shit —fingers tangling up, Jackson drawing over the FUCK letters one by one. It was stupid as shit, but it was okay because it was also really nice.

So he left his wall down, curling a soft grip around Jackson’s wrist, pulling his hand close to his mouth. Mickey pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist, then his palm, watching the way that the other man’s cheeks went a little pink. Mickey breathed a little laugh, moving to lay on top of Jackson, straddling his hips.

“What’re you blushing for?” Mickey grinned at him. 

He pressed their chests together as he slid his hands down Jackson’s arms, catching his hands to bring up to the pillow. He'd noticed that the other man's cheeks would always tinge pink whenever he took the initiative, touching him first, kissing him first. Jackson could be a fucking _flirt_ , and throw out lines, and be really open about how he felt about Mickey... but when Mickey turned the table on him, he got a little flustered and pink in the face. It was honestly kind of adorable.

Predictably, Jackson’s cheeks tinged darker pink; he smiled, “Shut up.”

Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him, pinning Jackson’s hands down to the pillow as he straightened his arms out. The blankets slid down his back a little, exposing him to the cold air in the room, but he ignored it.

“You just tell me to shut up?”

Jackson nodded; Mickey felt his legs bend at the knee behind him, his hips trying to rock upwards a little bit, “Yeah.”

“You think that’s a good idea? I’m the one in the better position here,” Mickey pointed out, eyes glancing to his hands holding down Jackson’s.

The other man rolled his eyes, “Bitch, I will freeze you out.”

Mickey pulled a confused face, but before he could open his mouth to ask what the fuck he was talking about, Jackson’s legs kicked behind him, and the blankets were torn away from Mickey’s body, now fully exposing him to the cold. It bit harshly into his skin and instantly made him tense up. 

“Fuck!” Mickey laughed, letting go of Jackson’s hands so he could reach back for the blankets again. 

But somehow Jackson twisted under him, knocking him to the bed in one swift motion. Mickey punched out a laugh, scrambling to grab the other man’s leg to pull him back down, but he got a face full of pillow instead; Jackson laughed loud when Mickey froze in shock.

“Sonuva bitch,” Mickey gathered himself again, getting up on his knees as snatched the pillow from Jackson’s hand, hitting him in the face with it in return. “We’re not having a fucking pillow fight.”

“That’s weird,” Jackson pulled an exaggerated face. Mickey watched as he raised to his knees also and grabbed another pillow from the bed. “Because it feels like we _are_.”

“No,” Mickey couldn’t stop the laugh as he shook his head. One hand poised out to placate Jackson, the other raised by his head, pillow clutched tightly, ready and waiting. “Not fucking happ—”

Jackson whipped his pillow into Mickey’s face with a loud cry of victory. Mickey got lost in the moment, hitting Jackson back, grappling with him a little, rolling around on the bed, trying to pin each other down to give each other a face full of pillow. 

His face was hurting, but not from the pillow. This whole dumbass pillow fight lasted for less than a couple minutes, but Mickey never stopped smiling the whole fucking time, never stopped laughing. 

Hearing Jackson’s stupid ninja noises and faces, just everything coming together in this ridiculous moment was the funniest shit he’d seen in a long time. He laughed hard, and loud, louder than he had in a very _very_ long time. So by the time Jackson had him fully pinned to the bed again, his stomach and face were hurting as he tried to catch his breath, eyes watering in the corners.

Jackson stared down at him, eyes lit up, breathing hard, “I win.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, his skin finally catching up again with the fact that it was still freezing in the room, “Fine, you win, congratu-fucking-lations. Now get the blankets, it’s freezing.”

“Really?” Jackson asked, leaning down to press his lips to the base of Mickey’s throat. His fingers slipped into the spaces between Mickey’s, holding his hands down against the mattress. “I can warm you up.”

Mickey took a deep breath, tilting his chin up, giving Jackson more room to mouth at his skin. His tongue was hot and lazy as it dragged over him, making him shudder, “Better get to it, then.”

Jackson scraped his teeth across Mickey’s skin before moving to press a quick, hard kiss to his mouth. “Come on then,” he sat up, letting Mickey’s hands go. While he reached over to his nightstand, Mickey propped up on his elbows under him, going for his collarbone with his lips and tongue, needing to taste him.

He tasted so fucking good; Mickey grinned before he sucked a mark onto Jackson’s chest, listening to his breath hitch. “How you wanna do this?”

Jackson snorted a laugh, looking down at him, “You want an itinerary or something?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey felt his cheeks grow warm.

Jackson leaned down to kiss his lips, soft and slow, bringing everything to a soft stop. Mickey moaned softly when he felt Jackson’s tongue slide over the seam of his lips; he let him in, reaching up with one arm to hook around his neck. They kissed deep and long like that, moving on the bed to situate themselves better. 

“You want me to fuck you, or…” Jackson asked against Mickey’s mouth; he kissed him again, pressing heavily against him as his mouth trailed to Mickey’s jaw and then to his neck. “I’ll have you any way you’ll let me —want you.”

Fuck, he was so fucking hard now. It took about a full minute before Mickey found his words, telling Jackson what he wanted. He trusted this man enough to give himself like that. It had been a long time, but he wanted Jackson _so_ fucking bad, wanted him inside and out, wanted him everywhere.

His nerves were starting to tingle and hum all over his body and he shivered, not knowing if it was from the cold or from anticipation. Jackson’s hands were everywhere, touching him, skimming over his stomach and chest, his mouth following right behind as he moved down Mickey’s body. He swore he was on cloud nine, allowing a small smile form over his lips while he watched the other man kiss a line down his sternum.

The hair on Jackson’s face scratched Mickey’s belly; he relaxed, eyes closing, head tilting back into the pillow under him as he let it all go and gave into the feeling. His hands wandered down to Jackson’s curls, fingers sinking in when he felt teeth graze over his stomach before they were followed by a hot, wet tongue.

“Skin is so fucking soft,” Jackson murmured, continuing on his path. “Tastes so good.”

Mickey couldn’t speak, hoisting himself on one elbow to watch the other man, his other hand’s fingers carding through Jackson’s hair still, making a mess of his curls. It was so cold in the room, but his body was heating up, going harder with every passing second.

“Fucking vampire,” Mickey finally managed to comment, watching Jackson suck a mark onto his stomach. He breathed a laugh when dark eyes looked up at him; the other man smiled wide and moved over a little bit to suck a second mark onto his skin.

“Gotta mark my territory,” Jackson whispered before going for a third. Mickey’s cheeks went hot. He chewed on his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling, but it didn’t work. “Gotta let those motherfuckers know.”

Mickey breathed a laugh —a short lived one, since Jackson’s fingers slipped around the band of his boxers. “Let them know what?” The question barely came out, it was hard to put words together as Jackson sat back on his heels and start tugging at Mickey’s boxers.

Jackson winked, but didn’t answer, just pulled Mickey’s boxers off in one go, throwing them over his shoulder. The cold hit, making Mickey suck air in through his teeth and tense up, but Jackson’s hot mouth wrapped around him quickly, no hesitation.

“Jesus _fucking_ christ,” Mickey hissed, back arching. His eyes shut tightly as Jackson drew him in deeper, hands touching him everywhere while he worked him.

Mickey was in haze, breathing deep, reaching for Jackson’s hair, back arching, body tensing. His mouth was running independently from his brain; it was just so fucking good, and Jackson was taking such good care of him, doing everything right, it was almost hard to fucking believe. Through his haze, Mickey found himself biting his smiling lips again, trying to keep a straight face, but it was near impossible.

Then Jackson’s lips were back on his, kissing him hard, grinning against his mouth, “Like a glove,” he whispered.

Mickey snorted a soft laugh, spreading his legs for the other man so he could settle between them again. He heard the cap of the lube, and a few moments later after he hitched his leg up a little and Jackson slid his hand between them, he swore he saw fucking stars, just from a touch.

“Eyes on me,” Jackson’s voice was full of rasp and want while he got Mickey ready.

He kept his eyes open, trying to focus on the warm brown ones looking right back at him.  But when Jackson touched that sensitive spot inside of him, he thought he was going to come right then and there. Fuck, how long had it been? How long had it been since someone had done this to him? His eyes closed tight and he tensed up, trying to stave off from coming too soon.

“Fuck,” he ground out, body pulsing with every push of Jackson’s finger. It was a good pulse that worked it’s way down to his bones.

“Mickey,” Jackson whispered. “Look at me.”

With a tremendous amount of effort, he did. He opened his eyes and his mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. Then Jackson grinned at him, kissing him softly, and just like that he fucking melted, relaxing under the other man completely.

Jackson took his time getting Mickey ready, even when Mickey said he was good to go, Jackson gave him a teasing grin and shook his head, telling him to stop being impatient. Mickey was so worked up, writhing and breathing so hard under the other man, that by the time he heard the condom wrapper, it was like a fucking hallelujah chorus.

That first push inside, Mickey shuddered —his whole fucking body, whether from the chilled air, or from going slow, he shuddered and felt his eyes sting as he tried to keep them open, not looking away from Jackson’s face.

“Oh my god,” he barely heard Jackson whisper. 

Mickey nodded, not knowing what he was nodding about, not knowing how to breathe anymore. It was so good, and his body was growing hotter and hotter the deeper Jackson buried into him. When Jackson’s hips pushed against him, when he bottomed-out, both of them surged forward, pressing their lips together.

Jackson waited, resting deep inside him, waiting for him to adjust while he kissed him slow. Mickey hitched his legs up a little higher, and Jackson reached down, hooking his arms under his knees, drawing his legs up even more. The new angle made Mickey pant heavily and break away from the kiss to moan, needing more —Jackson was pushing up right against his prostate. He wasn’t going to last long, he knew that for sure.

He needed it all, every single bit of the other man, he needed all of Jackson, now. He wanted to chase that feeling, wanted it to take over. Mickey reached for Jackson’s hair, burying his fingers into it, needing to feel it again.

“Okay,” he breathed against Jackson’s mouth.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. “Real fucking good.”

Jackson grinned before he started moving. He moved slow and careful at first, and Mickey was appreciative for that, getting him back on track, getting him back in that mindset of taking it like this. Shit, when was the last time he had sex in an actual _bed_? He couldn’t remember —didn’t really matter, he was here now, and it was so fucking good.

Mickey felt it all over his body, every time Jackson pushed into him —his words _like a glove_ flit in and out of Mickey’s head, and he grins. Because it’s true. They fit, and it’s perfect. Mickey hooks his arms around Jackson’s shoulders, pulling him down; Jackson drops Mickey’s legs and goes to him, pushing deeper, moaning against his mouth as they kiss.

It’s not cold anymore. Mickey hitches his legs up on Jackson’s hips and kisses him hard, licking into his mouth. He loves kissing him, loves hearing these little breathy noises the other man makes as his hips roll into him.

His fingers find that fucking hair again, threading through, needing that texture under his touch, grabbing fistfuls. Jacksons like that too, Mickey can tell, because when he pulls at it, Jackson’s hips stutter like he wants to go harder, faster.

“Not gonna break me,” Mickey pants.

A slow half-smile cuts into the corner of Jackson’s mouth as he takes Mickey’s hands and presses them into the pillow, anchoring himself there. Mickey’s caged in, looking up into heavy dark eyes that he swears can see right into his fucking soul. Jackson’s lips are parted and his brows are lifted just slightly as he rolls his hips again, harder this time, a little faster. It hits the right spots, and steals Mickey’s breath.

“Feel so good,” Jackson says.

He can’t help it, Mickey moans through a grin and says back, “Like a glove?”

Jackson buries himself over and over again, harder, deeper. He pants a laugh, head nodding as he bends down to press a kiss to Mickey’s lips, “Like a fucking glove.”

Mickey didn’t last much longer after that. Jackson had let his hands go, to touch him everywhere, skimming his fingers over his chest and legs, finally to wrap around him, stroking him in time with his thrusts while he told Mickey to keep his eyes on him. And that was his undoing, it was too much, Jackson was too much.

He was a little louder than he expected to be, tensing up and grabbing for Jackson’s shoulders, arms, anything he could reach. He shattered under the other man, a mix of unbearable relief and overwhelming fucking _joy_ pulling him apart. 

Mickey sucked in deep breaths of air while he tried to keep his eyes open, watching Jackson grin down at him. He reached up and held the side of the other man’s face, feeling the scratchy texture.

“C’mere,” Mickey said.

Jackson did, laying on top of him fully, kissing him, licking into his mouth while his hips stuttered and drove faster. Even though Mickey was a little sensitive, it was still good. He grunted against Jackson’s mouth, fingers again finding his hair, pulling at it as he bit at Jackson’s _fuck you_ mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jackson tore his mouth away from Mickey’s and buried his face into the crook of his neck; Mickey wrapped his arms around him, one hand in his hair, holding him tight as Jackson rode it out, hips slowly stuttering to a halt.

Jackson breathed heavily against Mickey’s skin as they laid there for a minute, both of them collecting themselves. Then, again, Jackson kissed him. It was lazy and a little sloppy, but it made Mickey’s stomach flutter, and his body heat up while the cold crept back onto his skin.

They laid in bed for a little bit, shoulder to shoulder, fingers twining together, staring up at the ceiling of Jackson’s bedroom like couples do on television right after having off-screen sex. But there wasn’t anything weird or awkward about it. Mickey still felt Jackson’s hands gripping onto his legs and sliding down his ribs. He still felt the burn of stubble in the crook of his neck and around his mouth. He felt really… _satisfied_. Content, even. Really good.

“You wanna take a shower?” Jackson asked.

Mickey looked over at the other man; his cheeks were flushed and Mickey was sure his hair would never be the same again, completely messed up from Mickey’s fingers. Jackson’s lips were bitten —everything about him right now was screaming that he just fucked. And it was beautiful, _he_ was beautiful. 

They were laying on the bed with no blankets or even a sheet covering them up, and suddenly that’s when Mickey finally felt the full effect of the cold air. He shivered, nodding his head, “Yeah, I need to warm up.”

Jackson smirked at him, rolling to his side, grabbing the side of his face so he could kiss him soundly on the mouth, “I’ll keep you warm tonight, babe.”

Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up as he pulled away from Jackson, standing from the bed —not a care in the world that he was still naked, “Good, because if I freeze to death, I’ll fucking kill you.”

He heard Jackson laugh as he got up from the bed, rushing up behind Mickey, wrapping his arms around his waist. He pressed tightly against him, mouth finding the side of Mickey's neck, dropping scratchy kisses along his skin, "Is it too much that I'm ready to go again?"

Mickey snorted a laugh, turning in Jackson's arms as he walked them backwards towards the bathroom connected to the bedroom, "Man, you're looking at the king of the short refractory."

Jackson's eyes lit up, slow wide smile cracking over his mouth, "Really?"

Mickey nodded, feeling a proud bubble in his chest; he laughed, "Oh yeah."

 

* * *

 

When they fell asleep, Mickey had himself pressed up against Jackson’s back, his arm wrapped around him, face pressed into the back of his neck. But when he woke up, Jackson wasn’t there —the windows were closed, the room wasn’t freezing anymore and there were two large gold eyes staring at him.

“The fuck,” Mickey groaned, frowning deeply at the gargoyle. 

What was it’s name again? He couldn't remember, he could _never_ remember. The cat was sitting where Jackson once was, just staring at Mickey —the only thing it really liked to do when Mickey was over at the apartment. It was really unnerving already, but now that Mickey had woken up to it, it was just now slightly terrifying.

“Go away,” Mickey waved at it half-heartedly. The cat didn’t budge, but his eyes followed as Mickey slowly sat up in bed and leaned against the headboard. Last night he used muscles that he hadn't used in a long time, and he was sweetly reminded of that as he stretched and moved. Felt good.

Mickey ran a hand over his hair, listening to a couple sounds that seemed to come from the kitchen. He looked around Jackson’s room —the bookcase that was filled, the pictures on the walls, dresser… normal bedroom shit. But it was lived-in and the laundry basket in the corner of the room was piled a little too high. It made Mickey grin.

Jackson came into the bedroom with two cups of coffee. He was only wearing boxers and a pair of glasses that Mickey had never seen before. They were kind of big with thick frames, but they looked really fucking good.

Mickey took one of the cups, “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Jackson’s cheeks flushed just a tiny bit, “Uh, yeah… I don’t like to wear them a lot.”

“Look good,” Mickey took a sip, watching the other man gently shoo the gargoyle from his spot and settle in under the covers. Mickey raised his arm, tilting his head to the side, “Here.”

Jackson breathed a laugh, slipping under his arm, “Sleep okay?”

“Slept fucking great,” Mickey said, trailing his fingers over where Jackson’s Cocteau tattoo was. The gargoyle caught his attention again, stepping carefully around both of their legs and sitting between Mickey’s, staring at him again. Mickey sighed, looking over at Jackson, “Why does it do that shit?”

Jackson grinned, his glasses fogging up a little when he took a drink from his coffee, “You’re new and interesting. And it’s a _she_.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Well, can you get her out?”

“Why?” Jackson frowned, sitting up a little straighter under Mickey’s arm.

“Because, I don’t want her staring while we fuck,” Mickey stated. He was really feeling those glasses, after all.

Jackson’s shoulders lurched as he coughed into his coffee; he wiped at his mouth and nodded, setting his coffee on the nightstand. “Time to go, Nagini.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Jackson's big ol' nerd glasses that he looks fantastic in](https://oneweekoneperson.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/43_xavier-dolan-hipster.jpg) | [Jackson's Cocteau tattoo](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/9c/34/1b/9c341bc97711001b39edc435db9e9927.jpg)  
>  All I know about Jean Cocteau is the bare minimum of a quick wiki search, and a google search for his drawings lol, just a heads up.
> 
> \--
> 
> Okay, I want to share some Jackson/MickeyxJackson related stuff with you guys, from tumblr, if you haven't seen it already, while I remember this time lmao <3
> 
> 1\. Found a fc from Jackson's mom [x](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/141514992938/idk-why-but-sally-fields-always-pops-in-my-mind)  
> 2\. I made: [icons](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/141509328963/mickeyjackson-icons-req-by-anonymous-topcenter) | [manip](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/141498458338) | [manip](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/141448597168/bitchface-boyfriends)  
> 3\. [These nerds in 3 yrs](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/141342322798/mickey-and-jackson-3yrs-in-breakfast-they-got) | [About Jackson and his glasses](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/141238322028/noelroeimfisher-ifuckinlikeit-can-u-talk-about)  
> 4\. [noelroeimfisher](http://noelroeimfisher.tumblr.com) made: [manip](http://noelroeimfisher.tumblr.com/post/141015186399) | [manip](http://noelroeimfisher.tumblr.com/post/140831836854)  
> 5\. [grumpymickeymilkovich](http://grumpymickeymilkovich.tumblr.com) made: [manip](http://grumpymickeymilkovich.tumblr.com/post/140740987279) | [manip](http://grumpymickeymilkovich.tumblr.com/post/140736911974)  
> 6\. More about Benny [x](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/141269640093/could-you-please-tell-us-something-more-about)


	9. Big Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to come back and edit this, so I'm sorry in advance for any spelling mistakes or wrong words! I just wanted to get this up now before I go somewhere!

“Dad?” Mickey hummed in response, tilting Yev’s head down so he could trim his hairline. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah,” Mickey mumbled. As long as the kid sat still, he could ask him any fucking thing he wanted. Yev got a little ticklish around his neck, so Mickey had to stop and wait for him to quit wiggling every once in a while.

“It’s about Ian,” Yev said, hesitation in his voice.

Mickey sighed, moving to trim around his ears, “What is it?”

“Are you… are you two ever gonna get back together?”

Mickey stopped, dropping his hands at his sides, eyes closing. His whole body tensed and heated up, not knowing how to answer that question without upsetting his kid. Mickey didn’t know how, but he saw this question coming a mile away.

“Are you?” Yev asked quietly, glancing over at him.

“No,” Mickey replied. 

Yev got quiet, but it was such a heavy quiet that it made Mickey feel like he just kicked a fucking puppy right in the mouth. And then a really small, “Really?” came out of Yev’s mouth, and Mickey swore he felt something inside of him break in two. 

First Mickey was locked up for basically his son’s entire life, and now that he was out he was disappointing him even more. What the fuck. “I’m sorry, man,” Mickey murmured, getting back to cutting his son’s hair.

After a few minutes of that same heavy silence Yev asked, “Is it because of his sad days and his fast days?”

Mickey took a deep breath, trying to keep patient. He switched to Yev’s other ear, “No, it’s not because of that.”

The tension in the room was growing tighter; Mickey chanced a glance at Yev’s face, to see him frowning, his brows drawn sharply together. Great, he was pissed. Mickey took another deep breath, trying to think of something else to say to make this conversation stop.

“He’s better now,” Yev said. “He hasn’t had a bad day in a really long time.”

“It’s not because of his bipolar, Yev,” Mickey said. “I know he’s been better.” Mickey almost cut Yev’s fucking ear when the kid abruptly stood from the chair and turned around to look at him —more like glare at him, “ _Jesus_ —”

“Then why not?” Yev demanded, full ten-year-old attitude in full swing. “Ian told me you two loved each other —you were boyfriends, and he loved you so much!”

The back of Mickey’s neck got blistering hot, “Ian shouldn’t have fucking told you that. He shouldn’t have told you _anything_ about us.”

Yev looked so much like a young Mickey, angry eyebrows and snarl on his little mouth, “You don’t love him anymore?”

“No, I don’t,” Mickey paused for a second because his response was so automatic, so natural, with no feelings of guilt. Holy shit; it was surreal.

Mickey had never had to deal with this shit before —tantrums, kids talking back, conversations that Yev would never understand and shouldn’t have to understand, at least not now, not when he’s ten years old. He tossed his scissors and comb on the kitchen table and shook his head, “Not doing this —not talking about this with you. It’s not your fucking business, Yevgeny.”

“Yes it is!”

Mickey breathed a humorless laugh, not knowing how else to respond, “It’s _really_ not.”

“Ian said—”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what Ian said!” Mickey snapped, skin growing hotter. “Ian shouldn’t’ve fucking said anything to you!”

Yev’s eyes got glassy and big when Mickey’s voice got louder, but the little snarl stayed and the eyebrows furrowed harder, “That’s not fair!”

Mickey, fully aware that he was arguing with a ten year old at this point, shook his head, “You don’t even know what that means! You know what’s not fucking _fair_ , Yev? Not getting to see you grow up, _that’s_ not fair. What’s not fucking _fair_ is you on my ass about a relationship, _that you don’t even remember_ , that’s been over for almost ten years. It’s _over_ , okay? Me and Ian are over… _forever_. I don’t love him anymore —and he doesn’t love me— and I’m okay with that. So fucking drop it!”

He stopped himself before he said something about Ian that he’d regret —things that Yev didn’t need to know about. And he hadn’t meant to yell, but he did. He hadn’t meant to make his kid cry, but he did. Mickey ran a hand over his mouth, feeling his own eyes sting, watching the way two big crocodile tears slid down his son’s angry cheeks. 

Fuck, he was an asshole, wasn’t he? Making his kid cry —yelling at his kid like that. Mickey didn’t know how to do this, he didn’t know what he was doing. This was the most they had _really_ talked to one another since Mickey got out, and it ended in Yev crying. Great fucking job.

“I hate you!” Yev cried, turning around and running to his room; it was like a bullet to the gut, hearing those words. Mickey opened his mouth to call after him, but before he could get anything out, he heard the door slam. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, running his hands over his hair as he sat down in the chair Yev had been sitting in before. He felt a hand come down softly on his shoulder; Mickey looked up to see Svetlana looking down at him, brows raised.

“Fucking hates me,” Mickey shook his head.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You’re a parent now.”

“Probably shouldn’t’ve yelled at him,” he sighed.

Svetlana moved to rest her hip against the edge of the kitsch table, looking at Mickey. She folded her arms under her chest and nodded, “It’s part of being a parent —yelling when you shouldn’t; making children cry. You don’t always get to be hero with cool tattoos, checking math homework —and you don’t always get it right.”

“So I fucked up.”

She shook her head, “No, you didn’t fuck up.”

“But he hates me,”

“Mickey,” Svetlana gave him a soft smile, “I _promise_ he does not hate you. He has so many feelings, and he is so young. You think he’s never said that to me? It hurts like a bitch, I know, but he doesn’t mean it. Give him time to breathe.”

“He want’s me and Ian to get back together,” Mickey said.

Svetlana let out a long breath, pushing her hair out of her face, “I told him _many_ times to stop with that. I told him you two are done; I’m surprised that he hasn’t brought it up before now, though. He loves Ian so much, and he loves you so much.”

Mickey let her words hang in the air for a minute. There were about a million different thoughts running through his head, and most of them were centered on his son. And then Ian. And then he got hot again on the back of his neck.

“Why the fuck would Ian tell Yev we were together?” He asked Svetlana. “He’s a little kid, he doesn’t need to know about that shit —he doesn’t need his heart fucking broken like that.”

Mickey was pissed. Real fucking pissed, because now Ian put him in a real bad situation with his kid. _He_ was the one who had to look at a crying ten year old and tell him no, it was never going to happen, that his family was always going to be broken.

Svetlana sighed, moving to sit in one of the chairs, elbows resting on top of the table, “It was a mistake. Zhenya asks a lot of questions, and Ian wasn’t thinking—”

“I don’t care if it was a mistake, he shouldn’t’ve fucking said anything,” Mickey scowled.

“I know,” Svetlana nodded. “He shouldn’t have. But he did… and he knows it was a mistake, we talked about it —fought about it, actually. He’s tried to fix it… but Zhenya is young, and it’s hard for him to let go of hope.”

Without thinking about it, Mickey rolled his eyes, “Guess I shouldn’t tell him I’m seeing someone yet, then.”

Svetlana looked at him, smile spreading across her lips. Mickey felt his face grow hot, knew he was probably bright red. Fuck, he really didn’t want to bring this up yet. Fuck. “I knew it,” she said, smug and bright-eyed. “I _knew_ it!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey waved her off, standing from the chair, “It’s not a big deal.” She just hummed at him, brow arching. “So, do I go in there now?” Mickey asked, needing to get off the subject of Jackson right now. He hated when she got all smug and shit like that.

“You can,” she answered. “He’s not a baby, but he is still a child; there’s so much he doesn’t understand. All he knows is that he loves Ian, and he loves you… and how great would that be if the two of you loved each other again —you’re his father, and…”

“So is Ian,” He nodded again. “I just wish Ian hadn’t’ve opened his fucking mouth.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” She shrugged. “And don’t go looking for him to go off on him, okay? He knows he fucked up —it was a while ago, it’s over.”

Mickey felt a little surge of resentment flare up in his chest, “I wasn’t gonna fucking go after him, what the fuck? I’m not a fucking rabid dog here, I don’t just… go after people.”

Svetlana raised placating hands, “I didn’t say you were. I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“That’s a first,” Mickey snorted, shaking his head.

There was a few beats of silence before Svetlana cracked a small smile, “What’s his name?”

Mickey raised his middle finger at her before getting up and heading to Yev’s room. Svetlana did a really great job in putting his room together; light gray walls, white bedding that had little blue sharks all over, light wood dresser, desk and bed frame, a really cool orange rug. 

He had a cork board above his headboard with dozens of pictures pinned —a lot of friends from school, and Svetlana and Ian, and a couple of Mickey. People who were important to him. It was nice seeing his picture up there, Mickey had to admit.

Yev was sitting on the floor, back against his bed, staring down at a book that Mickey was sure he wasn’t really concentrating on, because his face was still creased in that pissed-off scowl.

Mickey sat on the edge of Yev’s bed and sighed heavily, “Ay, I gotta talk to you.”

Yev looked up at him for a second before he got up and sat next to him, putting his book to the side; his eyes were wet, a little red around his nose. Poor guy. “I’m sorry I said I hate you,” he sniffed. “I don’t hate you, I’m just mad.”

“I know,and you’re allowed to be mad,” Mickey reached out and ran his hand over the top of Yev’s hair. “I gotta talk to you man-to-man though.”

Yev nodded, bringing his legs up to the bed to sit criss-cross, “Okay. Man-to-man.”

Mickey gave him a soft smile, “I need you to try to understand that me and Ian aren’t going to be getting back together, okay?”

“Ever?” Yev asked; he blinked one too many times, and Mickey realized that he was trying not to cry again.

Mickey nodded, “Ever.”

The kid crossed his arms under his chest, “This sucks.”

It was hard not to smirk; Mickey didn’t know a whole lot about ten year olds, but he knew that they sure as fuck could be funny without even trying or meaning to. “I know you don’t believe me right now, but it’s better this way.”

“How do _you_ know?” Yev asked him, a little clipped and accusing.

Mickey scratched the back of his neck, trying to come up with an explanation that went beyond _I just do_. “I know because… we don’t love each other like that anymore.”

Yev’s arms uncrossed slowly and he took a deep breath, his little hands coming up to press against his eyes, “Okay.”

His son crying wasn’t _funny_ , and Mickey would never call it funny. But Yev was sad over the end of a relationship that he didn’t remember, and it was kind of hard for Mickey to understand that. But instead of showing his frustration, he just sat there and patted his kid on the back to try to make him feel better. 

It must have worked, because soon little arms were wrapping around his shoulders and squeezing him tight. It almost startled Mickey for a second; he carefully wrapped his arms around Yev and held on for as long as the kid would let him. 

When Yev sat back on the bed, Mickey sighed, knowing he was probably making a bad move right now, but while they were talking about this shit, he wanted to get some of it out of the way. “There’s something else I gotta talk to you about, while we’re talking about… this shit.”

“Okay,” Yev sniffed.

“There’s gonna be a day when I want you to meet someone really special to me,” Mickey said. “It’s not gonna be today, or tomorrow… or this week. But one day. And I’d really appreciate it if you gave him a chance.”

Yev didn’t say anything for a long time, as he stared at Mickey. And Mickey was worried for a minute if he seriously fucked up. His skin got warm, and all he could pray for at that moment was that his child didn’t go fucking nuclear.

“Is that why you won’t get back together with Ian?”

Mickey told himself to be patient. He told himself not to start yelling, or to snap at the kid; he wanted Yev to drop this shit; it was never going to fucking happen. Why the fuck did Ian tell him they were together —he knew it was a mistake, but seriously what the fuck.

“Yevgeny… I don’t want to get back with Ian, and Ian doesn’t want to get back with me,” Mickey said carefully. “The only person wanting us to get back together is you. People who don’t want to be in a relationship with each other… shouldn’t be in a relationship.”

Yev huffed a deep breath, shoulders raising and falling, “Like you and mom?”

Mickey hesitated while he tried to figure out if that was a good comparison, “Uh… sure. Yeah. Me and your mom don’t want to be together… so we’re not.”

“But you live together,” Yev pointed out.

“We’re more like roommates,” Mickey replied. “Roommates with a kid.”

Yev finally cracked a smile, “That’s weird.”

Mickey couldn’t help but laugh and nod, “Yeah, a little.”

“Are you gonna live with mom forever?”

“No, kid,” Mickey shook his head. “One day I’ll get my own place.”

Yev got quiet again, picking at a thread that was sticking out from his comforter, “Can I stay with you sometimes?”

“I’d be pretty fucking bummed out if you didn’t,” Mickey told him.

That got Yev to smile, “Cool.”

Mickey reached over and scruffed up the top of Yev’s brown hair; he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his head and stood from the bed, “We cool?”

Yev nodded, “Yeah, we’re cool.” Before Mickey reached the door, Yev called out to him again, “I’ll give him a shot, but I’m not promising anything! If I don’t like him, I’m _not_ being nice.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and snorted a laugh, “Yeah, okay.”

“What’s his name?”

He took a deep breath, fingers wrapped around the doorknob as he looked back at his kid, “Jackson,” he said.

Yev pulled a face, “That’s a funny name.”

Mickey punched out a laugh, “Excuse me, what is _your_ name again?”

The kid’s face got beet red as he whined, “Dad!”

 

* * *

 

It had been a couple days since the fight with Yev, and Mickey made himself stay at home for those couple of days to spend time with him. It had been nice, but also Mickey had missed Jackson —call him a fucking sap or whatever, but he wanted to make dinner for the other man to make up for it.

“I like this,” Jackson said. “Kinda sexy… barefoot, doing your he-man walk around my kitchen… going through my drawers.”

Mickey rolled his eyes as he held a spoonful of mashed potatoes up to Jackson’s mouth, “Here.”

The other man lifted a brow at him before he leaned forward and popped the spoon into his mouth, humming a noise that vaguely sounded like _oh my god_.

“Need anything?” Mickey asked, taking the spoon away. He dipped it into the bowl of mashed potatoes to get his own bite. 

“Those are fucking good,” Jackson said. “How do you know how to do this shit?”

Mickey snorted a laugh, adding a little more salt, “If you can read, you can cook.”

Jackson kicked out his foot and hit Mickey’s butt as he walked by. He was sitting up on the counter watching while Mickey cooked, drinking beer, being absolutely _no_ fucking help, but it was okay because Mickey got kissed whenever he wanted, and hands brushing over his shoulders and hair.

“Yeah, people say that, but I think it’s bullshit,” Jackson said. “Because I can read, and… I’m really bad at cooking.”

“Maybe you’re just not fucking trying,” Mickey shrugged as he grinned to himself, seeing Jackson narrow his eyes at him.

Jackson hopped down from the counter and grabbed Mickey around the waist, pressing up behind him as his mouth pressed against his ear, “You’re a dick, you know that?”

Mickey laughed, turning his head so he could kiss Jackson, “You like it.”

“I do,” Jackson hummed against him, his mouth softening into the kiss, deepening it. “Now put your oven mitts away, Betty Crocker, and make out with me a little.” 

“Fucking idiot,” Mickey smiled against his mouth. He blindly pushed the pan of broccoli away from the burner and turned the stove off (again, blindly, almost burning his damn fingers). He let Jackson pull him away from what he was doing to turn him and press him against the counter while they kissed.

Mickey had his fingers sinking into Jackson’s hair, eagerly parting his lips for Jackson, letting him in, needing to taste him. Jackson’s hands reached down and grabbed onto his ass, making him grin into the kiss, moaning against him when Jackson squeezed him and pulled him closer.

Jackson broke the kiss for a moment to tug at Mickey’s shirt, pulling it off quickly. Mickey snorted a laugh, “Ay, I’m still fucking cook—”

His word was cut off when lips brushed across his collarbone; his fingers dived right back into Jackson’s hair, gently pulling at the strands as he felt teeth scrape over his skin, followed by Jackson’s tongue. He melted against the edge of the counter, his whole body tingling. Jackson grabbed his hips and pulled, quickly picking Mickey up to pop him up onto the counter.

“Food’s gonna get cold,” Mickey mumbled, not knowing why he was thinking of food at a time like this. Jackson was dragging his lips and tongue along the tattoo on his chest, leading down to his nipple, so honestly, food was the least of his worries.

“Got my dinner right here,” Jackson panted against his chest, his fingers fumbling with the buckle of Mickey’s belt.

Fuck, he was so hard. It had been exactly five days since they last fucked, and that line that Jackson threw out was nearly criminal, it was so bad. But Mickey craved him down to his bones, so he forgave it. 

Screw it, they could reheat the food, that was what microwaves were for. 

“C’mere,” Mickey grunted, pulling on Jackson’s hair, pulling his head back so he could press a hard kiss down onto his mouth. 

If he had it his way, he’d have Jackson twenty-four-seven. His _fuck you_ mouth, the harsh scratch of his stubble, the mass of curly hair on top of his head. Jackson was breathing hard when he pulled away from their kiss, pulling on Mickey’s hips, “Get —get back down,” he said, desperate and heavy.

Hearing his voice like that did things to Mickey. He immediately slid off the counter and grabbed at Jackson’s shirt while they moved from the kitchen, into the hallway. Halfway down the hall, Jackson pushed him up against the wall; his shoulder hitting the edge of a picture frame, sending it tumbling to the floor, but neither one of them so much as flinched.

Jackson wrapped his arms around Mickey’s neck, his hips pressing tightly against him, showing Mickey how turned on he was; he kissed him slow, but somehow still desperate and hot. Mickey pulled away from their kiss to turn his head and bite down on the soft flesh of the inside of one of Jackson’s arms. The other man shuddered hard and pressed against him more.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Jackson panted. Mickey’s guy likes to be bit. He likes his hair pulled. He likes to feel Mickey’s short fingernails scratch down his back.

While Jackson kissed him hard and desperate again, his arms dropped, hands going straight for Mickey’s jeans, opening them deftly. He slid his hands behind Mickey, down into the back of his jeans and boxers, grabbing his ass, their bare chests pressing tightly together.

He couldn’t help it; Mickey breathed a heavy laugh against Jackson’s mouth, because he knew they probably looked stupid as hell. Jackson was revved up so much, gripping his ass hard in both hands, pressing him against the wall. It was contagious. 

Mickey tried to move them, tried to drag Jackson with him into the bedroom, but the other man wasn’t having it, his hands slipping out from the back of Mickey’s jeans and pushing them down best he could. Fucking tight ass jeans that Svetlana bought him, _no one where’s those baggy things anymore_ , she had said, _I throw those other ones away_. 

Jackson dropped to his knees, tugging Mickey’s jeans down; Mickey leaned back against the wall, staring own at the other man. His jaw was tender as fuck and around his mouth burned from stubble scratching him, but it felt so damn good. He thought that Jackson would just the his jeans down to his knees, but he ended up shoving them all the way down until Mickey could step out of them.

“Look so good,” Mickey said quietly, breath hitching when Jackson took him into his hand, dragging his bottom lip against him. His eyes were glazed over and his hair was a fucking mess, mouth red and a little swollen. 

Mickey fisted the top of Jackson’s hair to the root when that _fuck you_ mouth opened up for him and drew him in. “Fuck,” Mickey dragged the word out, head tilting back against the wall; he barely felt Jackson shift at his feet until he heard a crinkle sound and then the hot, wet mouth around him pulled off for a second.

“Open this,” Jackson panted, holding something up for Mickey.

Mickey smirked, stomach tightening when he took the two packets from Jackson’s hand. A condom, and one of those packets of lube, “Ready to go, huh Romeo?”

Jackson hummed a affirmative as he drew Mickey back into his mouth. Mickey almost fucking fell down from the feeling. Jackson took him deep and slow, swallowing him down over and over as his hands slid over Mickey’s thighs and hips, touching him everywhere. With slightly shaking fingers, Mickey managed to open the packet of lube, passing it back down to Jackson.

It was overwhelming, when Jackson started getting Mickey ready. He was quick, but careful, making everything go fuzzy and making Mickey breathe loud, his hips pushing forward into his tight, warm mouth while he pulled on his hair. 

Mickey’s leg shook, and he had a hard time concentrating, but when Jackson slowly pulled his mouth off of him, he was brought back to center. They moved quick and desperate, to get Jackson’s pants off, to get the condom on. Jackson sat against the wall and Mickey straddled his lap.

They were so fucking hot. Jackson breathed against Mickey’s mouth, saying shit like _I missed you_ and _fuck, you feel good_. He kissed him over and over, little soft kisses that contrasted with the desperate, deep fuck. His hands were everywhere —on Mickey’s hips, grabbing his ass, gripping his thighs.

Mickey could barely speak. The muscles in his legs sparked to life as they remembered this. He hadn’t done this in so fucking long, but his body remembered how much he loved it, how good he was at it; he knew he was good. Call him a smug motherfucker, that was fine —he could make Jackson forget his own fucking name, riding him like this.

“Oh my god, Mickey,” Jackson gasped. Mickey grinned, losing himself as he dropped his head to the crook of Jackson’s neck, kissing and biting at the skin there. “Mickey —fuck, Mickey.”

“Come for me,” Mickey grunted into his neck, feeling that rush of need crash over him, making his legs tighten and his head go a little blurry; he was close.

Jackson fell off the edge of the cliff immediately. He gasped in these almost painful sounding breaths and chanted Mickey’s name, his body tensing up hard. Mickey made sure to press their foreheads together, making sure Jackson got that eye-contact that he craved. He looked him right in his dark eyes as he fell apart, and it was fucking beautiful, and it threw Mickey right off that cliff behind him.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Mickey and Jackson cleaned up and kicked back on the couch to watch some shitty TV. Mickey laid back against the armrest, rolling his eyes at Jackson, who settled between his legs, arm tucked on either side of Mickey, fingers idly brushing against Mickey’s sides; he rested his head on Mickey’s stomach, of course. The gargoyle was still curled up in her cat-tower thing, and hadn't moved in _hours_ except to stretch here and there.

Mickey carded his fingers through Jackson’s hair, not watching the television anymore, but just looking at the man resting on top of him. It was almost a little scary how much he enjoyed being around Jackson —how much he cared about him. His mouth wanted to open and say a million things, but he held them back. He wanted to ask Jackson things —things that had to do with them, and what they were— but again, he held back.

They still hadn’t talked about _labels_ yet but damn, if anyone else had Jackson, Mickey would probably lose his fucking mind.

Jackson must have felt Mickey staring at him, because he looked up at him with a little grin, “What?”

Mickey shrugged, “Nothing.”

The other man got this little glint in his dark eyes as he shifted a little, moving his arms so he could push Mickey’s shirt up a little bit. He dipped his head down and gave Mickey a couple soft kisses along his stomach, then looked at him again, “Liar,” he teased.

Mickey felt a flutter in his chest as he grinned back at him, “Just looking at you.”

For that, he got a few more kisses, slower this time, with light touches of a warm tongue, on his belly. Jackson’s scruff scratched at Mickey’s skin as he did this, and Mickey sighed softly from the feeling, head leaning back against the armrest of the couch.

“What’s on your mind?” Jackson asked, his warm breath bleeding over Mickey’s skin, giving him goosebumps.

Mickey bit his bottom lip as his fingers slipped from Jackson’s hair. He reached for him, hooking his hand around the back of his neck trying to get him to come to him. It worked; Jackson crawled up Mickey’s body and dropped a soft kiss to his lips, almost chaste.

“Just you,” Mickey murmured. His cheeks, and the back of his neck went warm from the little confession. “I uh… I like you.”

Jackson breathed a soft laugh while he kept dropping kisses to Mickey’s mouth, gently nipping at his bottom lip, “Good. I like you too.”

A little bubble of something rose in Mickey’s chest as tilted his head up to catch the next kiss that Jackson dropped, drawing it out, making the other man stay with the kiss this time. He loved kissing Jackson, loved it so fucking much. His taste; the feel of his tongue sliding against his; the way he made these breathy non-noise noises; the way his scruff scratched his skin. 

“I just,” Mickey panted, pulling away from the kiss a little, but thankful that Jackson continued to drop kisses to his mouth and chin and jaw. It was like he couldn’t get enough of Mickey, and that felt so fucking good. “I wanna know… what we’re doing.”

That got Jackson to pause. He gave Mickey a soft smile and shifted, sliding to lay next to Mickey; Mickey moved to lay on his side, facing Jackson so they could look at each other. “What do you want us to be doing?” Jackson asked. He wrapped his arm around Mickey’s waist and held him like that. God, it felt good.

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip before he got the courage to continue, “I told Yev about you.”

Jackson’s cheeks flushed a little and he smiled a little wide, like Mickey liked, “You did?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. I just… what are we?”

“Mickey,” Jackson had a teasing voice, but his cheeks got a little redder, “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

Mickey laughed, pushing at Jackson’s chest a little, “Fuck off, not anymore. Dick.”

Jackson laughed with him, but it died down pretty quick, for the both of them. Then Jackson slid his hand from Mickey’s waist to the side of his face; Mickey automatically leaned into the touch, suddenly glad he was lying down, because the way the other man was looking at him, and the day he felt when he touched him like that, it was enough to make him weak.

“That would make me really happy,” Jackson whispered, looking Mickey in the eyes. It was a little overwhelming, but in the good way. “I uh… I care about you so much.”

There were still so many thoughts and emotions swirling around Mickey, all at once like a tornado. It overwhelmed him, and Mickey let it, full force. He let it take over, let it fucking consume him while he pressed forward and kissed Jackson hard, not trusting his words right now. He couldn’t trust his words because he was falling for Jackson. He was falling hard.


	10. Kept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: homophobic slurs

Mickey stood outside of the tattoo shop with Jackson, taking a drag from the cigarette they were sharing, then passing it back to the other man —his _boyfriend_ (damn); it was nearly finished. It was kind of a busy day today, and Jackson couldn't leave for more than half an hour, so Mickey brought him a coffee and a sandwich for lunch.

They'd already eaten in the back of the shop, and Mickey was getting ready to go back to the Alibi to start his afternoon shift. "Thanks for bringing me lunch, babe," Jackson grinned around his cigarette, stressing that last word a little because he knew how it made Mickey's face get all hot. 

Mickey narrowed his eyes a little, but grinned back, "Yeah, you’re welcome." 

The door to the shop opened —Jackson’s client that he worked on last came out. She had a bright row of white teeth shining between her smiling lips. She came over to them and flung her arms around Jackson’s shoulders, thanking him for the work he did (some kind of flower on her hip). 

Jackson hugged her back, accepting the kiss to the cheek that she gave him. Mickey bit the inside of his lip to keep his mouth shut. When the girl left, he watched her though, knowing his face was probably hard, but not caring. It shouldn’t bother him that much, but it kind of did. This whole dating a bisexual thing was… different. Even though Jackson said that when he’s with someone, he’s only with them, it was always kind of hanging out in the back of Mickey’s mind.

“Hey,” Jackson caught Mickey’s attention.

“Hm?”

“You okay?” He asked.

Mickey pushed away the negative thoughts, knowing he was being fucking dumb. Jackson wasn’t an asshole, he wasn’t going to fuck around on Mickey —he trusted Jackson, truly, _genuinely_ trusted him. “Yeah, I’m good.

Jackson stepped up a little closer, hand reaching out to touch Mickey's wrist, "You working late tonight?" He asked, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. 

Mickey nodded, hand turning to slip his fingers in the spaces between Jackson's. "Closing," he told him. "Why?" 

Jackson shrugged, "Wanted to know if you wanted to come over." 

Mickey's brows raised in interest, all thoughts of Jackson’s client melting away instantly, ”I can do that." 

"Good," Jackson grinned; he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Mickey's mouth (he froze for a second, still getting used to affection in public, but he wasn't about to lean away from Jackson or make a big scene about it. He liked it, it felt good, just a little odd right now). He moved a little more forward and brushed his lips against Mickey’s ear, “Because I really wanna hear that noise you make, when I got you down my throat.”

Mickey’s face got hot as he gently playfully pushed Jackson away, calling him a dick. Behind them, someone made a disgusted snorting noise. Mickey's shoulders instantly tensed up as he leaned away from Jackson to look behind him. Some middle-aged, tatted up douchebag was standing outside of the shop on his phone, also smoking a cigarette. 

Mickey shook his head, heat ripping up his neck as he tried to calm down. He decided to focus on one of the cars in the parking lot instead of doing what he wanted, and punching the guy in the fucking throat. He had to watch himself. You don’t just get out of prison and then start getting in fights with pencil-dick fuckers like that. Not worth it.

Out of the corner of his eye though, he saw Jackson turn to look at the guy also. "You got a problem?" Jackson asked. 

"Not worth it," Mickey said, mostly to himself. 

The man ignored Jackson's question, talking into the phone instead, "Nothing, just a couple of fags outside the tattoo shop." 

Mickey's eyebrows shot up his forehead, heat slicking down his back, “The fuck you just say?” 

The older man waved him off like he wasn’t worth his time, saying more shit into his phone. Mickey started running numbers that didn't make any sense whatsoever, telling himself over and over that it wasn’t fucking worth it, no matter how big a bag of dicks the guy was.

“Holy shit,” Jackson laughed, loud and humorless; Mickey finally looked at him, wondering if he was going to have to hold him back or not. He hadn’t seen Jackson in this situation before, but he didn’t strike Mickey as a guy to get into a fistfight. 

The man scowled at Jackson, and Mickey didn’t like it. He went blank for a second, hot all over as he stepped forward. He said through his teeth, “Watch that fucking face,” but Jackson reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“You getting work done here, or are you just standing around with your dick in your hand?” Jackson asked keeping his hand on Mickey, like an anchor; it actually helped him focus again, but he kept his mouth shut tight, or else he’d probably fly off the handle.

The man sneered, “I’m getting work done.”

“Yeah? By who?” Jackson asked.

“Benny —how’s that _your_ business?”

Jackson laughed again, then reached for the door to the shop, calling inside, “Hey, Benny! C’mere a second!”

Mickey kept his eyes on the middle-aged douchebag, taking deep breaths. Ten years ago, he’d probably have this fucker on the ground, bleeding form his ears for calling him that. He had to keep his mouth shut tight like he was, or else Jackson’s hand wasn’t going to be able to keep him grounded.

Benny popped his head out of the shop, “W’sup?”

Jackson pointed to the man on his phone, “He’s your client?”

Benny nodded, “Yeah, I’m getting my station ready, why?”

Jackson hooked his arm around the back of Mickey’s neck, and he got a kind of sick satisfaction from seeing the older man’s face pinch in discomfort, like it was taking all he had in him not to vomit. Mickey was never one for this kind of PDA —hanging on another guy like this leaning into him heavily for the sole purpose of making a show— but right now he had absolutely _no_ problem with it.

“He’s unhappy with the atmosphere out here —doesn’t like seeing a couple _fags_ kissing in front of the shop,” Jackson told Benny.

Benny’s face fell as he stepped outside, he looked at the man, head shaking, “I’ve got a strict no-homophobe policy, man. That’s a real fucking shame, because I was looking forward to your back-piece.”

Mickey’s jaw dropped, as did the older man’s. He sputtered, hanging up his phone, “Wait, _what?_ Are you serious?”

Benny nodded, frowning harshly, “Yeah, I’m fucking serious, get the fuck out of here, I don’t deal with that shit. This ain’t 1952 anymore, shit’s real fucking old, and I don’t have time for it.” And with that, he didn’t even give the man a chance to reply, he went back inside the shop.

The man was fucking pissed, it was written all over his face. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, “The two of you ever see me again, you better walk the fuck away,” he then pointed at Jackson. “Especially you, you’re lucky I don’t kick your ass, you fucking queer motherfucker.”

Nope. Mickey saw red, felt his skin catch on fire as he stepped around Jackson, putting himself in the middle of the two. “Watch yourself,” he growled. 

“Fuck you,” the man spat, shoving at Mickey’s chest hard enough to make him stumble backwards, falling against Jackson. Fucker caught Mickey off guard; he should have been expecting that shit.

Mickey’s fist curled hard, but he was pulled back, away front he man. Jackson was there, moving around Mickey, putting himself between Mickey and the man, getting right in his face, pushing him away from Mickey, “Do it again, motherfucker! Put your fucking hands on him again—”

Oh… _shit_. Mickey quickly grabbed for Jackson, pulling him back, “Hey —Jack! Come on.” Jackson was still snarling at the man, daring him to touch Mickey again and _see what happens_. It took everything inside of Mickey not to crack a smile as he hauled his boyfriend away from the older man (who was now walking into the parking lot, middle finger in the air), dragging him into the alley next to the shop.

“Ay,” Mickey breathed a laugh, grabbing onto both sides of his face, making Jackson look at him. “It’s over, chill out.”

Jackson was breathing hard, his hands coming up to cover Mickey’s curling around them, holding on, “He put his fucking hands on you.”

“He wouldn’t be the first,” Mickey kind of failed to suppress the confused and slightly amused smile that threatened to surface. “You’re kinda scrappy, huh?”

Jackson cracked a little smile, pressing forward to kiss Mickey, “He put his hands on you,” he reiterated between kisses. “Can’t have that.”

It might have been fucked up, but seeing Jackson get all worked up, going after that man… okay, that was fucking hot. Mickey breathed a laugh against Jackson’s mouth, “Tryna be my knight in shining armor? Told you, I ain’t a princess.”

“Hush,” Jackson moved them, pressing Mickey against the wall of the building. Mickey’s hands dropped to his hips; Jackson held onto the sides of his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheeks. “Lemme protect what’s mine, and don’t give me shit about it, okay?”

Mickey eased back away from the kissing, warmth blooming deep in his gut. He almost felt drunk on that warmth, “What’s yours,” he breathed. 

Jackson chased his lips with his own, catching another kiss, hot but brief, “You good with that —if I say that?”

Mickey thought he heard someone walk past them on the sidewalk, briefly remembering that they weren’t in private, but his body didn’t seem to care, fingers dipping under the edge of Jackson’s hoodie to search for his skin, “This a two-way street?”

“You know you’ve had me fucking hooked since day one,” Jackson whispered, still holding Mickey’s face, dropping soft, slow kisses to his mouth. “Been yours,” he said, then he paused, looking Mickey dead in the eye; lips a little red, a little swollen. His dark eyes were soft, thumb sliding down to brush over Mickey’s tender mouth. “Can I keep you?” he asked, so quietly that Mickey almost missed it. Almost.

Everything about this man was overwhelming. Like sensory overload. The scratchy kisses, the heavy breaths against Mickey’s mouth, the way looked Mickey in the eye _always_ , the way he gripped Mickey when they fucked —his thigh, or shoulder, or under his knees. He was _so_ much, almost too much.

Mouth going dry, Mickey tried to wet his lips. He covered Jackson’s hands, slowly bringing them down, fingers slotting into the spaces between, unable to let go just yet. “Iceberg,” Mickey reminded him.

Jackson gave a half smirk, shrugging a shoulder, “I like ice.”

“I got a lot of fucking baggage.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s got baggage?”

“No, it’s just…” Mickey shook his head, shoulders falling.

Jackson sighed, eyes dropping for a second before he looked at Mickey again, “I’m a big boy. I thought we talked about this?”

“We did,” Mickey nodded. But Jackson didn’t know about the _before_ —who he was before, what he went through. He sighed, not really knowing how to say what he wanted to say —not really knowing _what_ he wanted to say in the first place.

Jackson leaned forward, brushing a kiss against Mickey’s lips, before pulling away again, “Are you happy… with me?” Mickey nodded, but he couldn’t get the words out, not right now. “I’m happy with you,” Jackson said. “Fucking like you a lot, Mick. I care about you, so much.”

Mickey felt his face heat up, a grin threatening to crack over his lips; he let it. “A’ight.”

“You laughing at me?” Jackson teased, pressing forward to rub his cheek against Mickey’s, hands slipping from Mickey’s so he could grab at his hips.

“Don’t,” Mickey breathed a laugh, his hands curling around Jackson’s wrists, stopping him before he felt the bite of fingertips into his sides. “Motherfucker, I will break _all_ your fucking fingers.”

Jackson laughed, lips finding the crook of Mickey’s neck as he pressed closer, “You won’t —you like them too much.”

Mickey went even hotter, stuck between the wall and Jackson, a scratchy cheek ticking his neck as he held on tightly to his boyfriend’s wrists, keeping him from tickling him. He laughed, rough and loud, before he pushed forward, wriggling out of the tight spot, “I gotta get back to work.”

Jackson looked like he fucking won something, smug bastard. He gave Mickey a little once-over, eyes flitting up and down before he followed Mickey out of the alley. “Look at that _ass_ though,” Mickey heard behind him, followed by a little whistle. 

Mickey threw his middle finger up, aiming behind him.

 

* * *

 

The hours crawled by at an almost maddeningly slow pace. It was hard for Mickey to not pace behind the bar, and try to get out of there sooner than he was supposed to, because he really just wanted to see Jackson. He was getting so fucking hung up on this guy, so gone on him, and part of him was still terrified about it… but it was getting easier to ignore that part.

He kept thinking about the stupid fucking guy in front of the shop, and how Jackson went after him. In the heat of the moment, it felt kind of good, in a weird way. Seeing Jackson’s scrappy side like that, sticking up for Mickey even though Mickey could definitely hold his own. 

In the moment, it kind of got him going. But it scared Mickey, the more he thought about it. He didn’t want that asshole going to the cops —didn’t want Jackson getting in trouble because of him, that would be fucking awful.

“Hey, dad?” Yev’s little voice called from the end of the bar. “What’s your favorite color?”

Mickey popped off a couple beer bottle’s caps and slid them over to the customer in front of him as he raised a brow at his son. Yev was set up at the very end of the bar, with his backpack and schoolwork. He was still working on his homework because he’d put it off until the last minute —too busy with hanging out with Kev and Vee’s girls. 

Yev _probably_ shouldn’t have been hanging out down at the bar this late —and should probably be getting ready for bed— but tonight was an exception because apparently the kid had begged Svetlana if he could hang out with Mickey while he did his homework. Kind of made Mickey feel a little special, if he were being honest.

“Uh, black?” Mickey shrugged. He didn’t really have a favorite.

Yev pulled a face, “That’s not a color.”

“Then I dunno, blue,” he shrugged again. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Yev tapped his pencil’s eraser against the edge of his textbook. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“The one where the son gets his homework done, then gets his ass up to bed because he’s got school tomorrow.” For that, Mickey got a balled up piece of notebook paper thrown at his shoulder. He laughed while he started cleaning glasses, and wiping down the bar. “Either Under Siege or Marked for Death.”

“Those sound… pleasant.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, quickly reaching down to pick the balled up paper off the floor and chuck it back at his son, “Do your work, man. You’re mom’s gonna fucking kill me if you don’t get that shit done.”

“Fine. What’s twenty-three times twenty-one?” Mickey gave him a look, shaking his head because Yev knew Mickey wasn’t going to just do his homework for him. “Please?” Yev stuck his lower lip out. “I only got five more questions, then I’m done!”

“Then get it done.”

Yev groaned, long and exaggerated, stretching his arms out in front of him, head falling forward to rest his forehead on the piece of paper in front of him. Mickey smirked at the kid, shaking his head. Ten year olds were really fucking dramatic, it turns out.

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s arm was slung over the back of Jackson’s shoulders, his fingers idly carding through messed up curls. Nagini had been curled up on Jackson’s lap, but she got up, stretched, then moseyed over to her cat tower, jumping up to the top platform only to curl back up and go back to sleep. Mickey wondered if she ever did anything else but sleep.

It was hard to concentrate on the television. Jackson was warm, pressed against his side, his hand in Mickey’s lap all soft and relaxed, his thumb gliding back and forth over denim as idly as Mickey’s fingers.

He sighed, turning to look at Jackson, “Ay, can I talk to you for a sec?”

Jackson grabbed the remote and put the television on mute, looking at Mickey with a slight frown, “What’s up?”

Mickey opened his mouth, but before he could say what he needed to say, he got caught up in the curve of Jackson’s bottom lip. He was _really_ fucking distracting. Mickey slid his hand from Jackson’s hair to the back of his neck as he leaned in and kissed that bottom lip, gently drawing it between his own lips, brushing his tongue over it until he got his boyfriend to open his mouth and breathe him in.

He turned his body more towards Jackson, wanting more, wanting deeper. He kissed him hot and slow, drawing out little sighs from the other man’s mouth; Jackson’s hand moved up to Mickey’s chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. When he pulled back form the kiss, he saw the slight pink heating up Jackson’s cheeks as his grip on his shirt loosened and fell away. Mickey grinned, pressing another kiss to his lips, catching that bottom lip once more.

“Uhm,” Jackson blinked a couple times, wetting his lips. “Uhm, what did —uhm…”

Mickey snorted a soft laugh; he knew the feeling. He slid his arm off of Jackson’s shoulders and turned his body even more towards him so he could talk, “I uh…” he sighed, not knowing how to say what he needed to say. “I don’t want you getting in shit because of me. What happened today at the shop… I appreciate it, but… can’t do that, man.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed a little, like he was confused, “You don’t want me to react when some fucking asshole puts his hands on you —you just want me to stand there?”

Mickey held his breath, hesitating for a second, “I just don’t want you getting in to something, and… getting picked up for it, you know?”

"I'm not gonna get picked up for-"

"I didn't think I'd get picked up for attempted murder, but I did," Mickey cut him off. "Shit happens."

Jackson was quiet for a moment, his fingers reaching out to brush over Mickey’s wrist; Mickey turned his hand over, letting Jackson trail his fingers over his palm, “Then if someone ever puts their hands on me, same rules apply.”

Mickey pulled a face, an uncontrollable reaction taking over, “No fucking way—”

“Why not?” Jackson gave him an easy, knowing look. Mickey didn’t have a response. “If someone ever puts their hands on you again, I’m not gonna just stand there. You know that’s not how this fucking works, Mick.”

Mickey swallowed, his face going a little warm, “Just don’t want you to get picked up, man.”

Jackson smiled wide like Mickey loved, leaning forward a bit to press a soft, short kiss to the corner of his mouth; it felt really good, really sweet. “Same goes for you —can’t have that shit, I just got you to myself. I…” he trailed off, lips tucking between his teeth.

“You what?” Mickey asked, lump in his throat.

“I uh…” Jackson sighed, eyes flicking away from Mickey’s face for a second, then right back. “I’m really attached to you, so… how about we just do something crazy if something like that ever happens again, and walk away.”

Mickey felt tension in his shoulders ease up —tension that he didn’t know was there. “Walk away, huh?”

Jackson nodded, eyes lighting up all mischievous. He moved forward, pushing Mickey to lay on his back on the couch, straddling his hips, “You think you could do that, big guy?”

Mickey gave him a look, hands reaching down to grab onto Jackson’s ass. “Pretty tall order you’re asking of a Milkovich.”

“Oh my god,” Jackson snorted a laugh, eyes rolling. He dropped a kiss to Mickey’s lips, “Could you do it for me?”

He’d do anything for Jackson, Mickey realized —sudden and consuming. He’d do anything for him. His breath caught in his throat, staring up into dark eyes as his hands slid to grip onto Jackson’s thighs. Fuck, they were beautiful, and intense, seeing straight through him, down to his very core. Every part of Jackson was so intense, so fucking overwhelming, to Mickey. Sometimes he couldn’t breathe around him, couldn’t think.

Mickey didn’t really mean for, “I’d do anything,” to slip out, but it did. 

That’s when Jackson’s smile softened at the edges, his hand sliding to hold the side of Mickey’s face; Mickey leaned into the touch, eyes wanting to close but he kept them open. Jackson’s thumb brushed over Mickey’s bottom lip, dark eyes trained on where he was touching, looking like Mickey’s mouth held all the wonders of the world.

“Guess we’re on the same page then,” he whispered, eyes moving back up to meet Mickey’s. 

There were about eight million things on the tip of Mickey’s tongue, running through his head, all focused around Jackson. He was barely hanging on to his reserve, barely holding it together because his boyfriend was just so… _much_. Mickey felt so much for him, and felt so much _from_ him, that it swirled all together and bubbled over. Again and again, overwhelming him to the point where his head spun.

“Can I keep you?” Mickey felt his face catch fire as he repeated Jackson’s words from earlier. All traces of his walls were long gone, leaving him open and vulnerable, but he felt okay with that, with Jackson. 

Jackson smiled, leaning down to kiss Mickey, again soft and sweet, “Yeah.”

Mickey let out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding, pressing up to kiss his boyfriend, nipping at his lips a little, “Can we just do this for the rest of the night?”

“Do what?” Jackson asked, even though Mickey knew he already knew.

“Fuck off,” Mickey grinned, he wrapped his arms around Jackson’s middle, pulling him down, moving them so they were laying face to face together, pushing his knee between Jackson’s legs. He kissed him hard, once, “This.”

Jackson grinned, “You wanna make out on the couch?”

“Mmhm,” Mickey hummed, kissing him softer this time, swiping his tongue over Jackson’s bottom lip, hand moving down his back to slip between his sweatpants and boxers, grabbing his ass again.

“Okay,” Jackson whispered between kisses, “But we gotta be quiet… I’m not supposed to have any boys over… might get in trouble.”

Mickey punched out a rough laugh against Jackson’s mouth, “Such a fucking idiot.”

“You like it,” Jackson murmured, hand coming up to hold the side of Mickey’s face. “Now shut the fuck up and keep kissing me.”

“Yes sir,” Mickey teased, kissing his boyfriend deep as he moved them once more, settling on top of Jackson, between his legs. 

 

* * *

 

It was late. Mickey’s lips still felt the sweet dull ache from kissing Jackson for so long. They were in bed, under the covers. Mickey snagged a pair of Jackson’s sweatpants, only wearing those. They were really comfortable, and Mickey loved that look Jackson got when he wore them —Jackson loved when Mickey worse his clothes, and Mickey totally understood that feeling, because a few days ago, Jackson put one of Mickey’s shirts on and it made his chest tighten up a little bit. 

But right now, he couldn’t sleep, laying on his side, just looking at the way Jackson’s face was so soft while he slept. Normally Jackson was a side-sleeper, but right now he was on his belly, side of his face pressed into the pillow, arms tucked under it.

Mickey propped himself up on his elbow, carefully, reaching out to touch Jackson, softly resting a hand between his shoulders. Jackson’s skin was warm, and soft. Mickey leaned over a little, pressing his mouth and nose to Jackson’s shoulder for a moment. Jackson smelled like… Jackson. He smelled clean, smelled vaguely of cigarettes, smelled like his shampoo.

He ran his hand slowly down Jackson’s spine, feeling his skin —the warmth, the softness— then slid it back up to settle between his shoulders again. Jackson barely stirred, face pressing a little deeper into the pillow, a soft sigh leaving his lips. Mickey pressed his nose and mouth to his shoulder again, inhaling that Jackson scent. Probably in any other situation, Mickey would feel like a gigantic creep —smelling a guy like this. But this wasn’t just any guy, and this wasn’t just any smell. 

Mickey scooted down the bed some, pressing his face against Jackson’s side, kissing him, breathing him in while his free hand gently curled over his opposite hip, fingers dipping a little under the waistband of his sweatpants. 

Again and again, Mickey kissed down the side of Jackson’s ribs, deeply breathing him in, pressing closer to him. It was fucking intoxicating, and Mickey wasn’t normally one to get caught up in someone’s smell, but fuck. He got down to his hip, kissing and breathing and being gentle as he mouthed at his skin, not even registering the fingers brushing into the back his hair at first —how long had Jackson been up for?

Mickey had this need for his boyfriend, this tight, clawing need. But he didn’t even know if it was sexual right now, he just… _needed_ him. Needed to touch him and smell him and take him all in. Mickey couldn't remember the last time he felt a need like this —had he ever? He really wasn’t sure. But it rolled through him like thunder, deep and intense. 

Slowly, Jackson turned over onto his back; Mickey’s mouth chased him, moving with him, seeking out the flesh of his hip and stomach. He moved up his boyfriends body, kissing and touching everywhere, reaching down to grip the inside of his thighs, making Jackson breathe heavy. While Mickey’s mouth moved up Jackson’s sternum, he slid his hand to his lower stomach, right above the band of his sweatpants, teasing his fingers along the edge.

Fingers threaded through Mickey’s hair. “You okay?” Jackson asked, voice thick with sleep.

A twinge of guilt curled in Mickey’s gut as he tilted his head up, resting his chin on Jackson’s sternum, “Sorry,” he replied.

But Jackson gave him a sleepy frown, “For what?”

“Waking you up,” Mickey said.

“You okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Just… I dunno. Can’t sleep.”

The sleepy frown stayed as Jackson stretched a little under him; he reached for Mickey, silently asking for him to come to him, so Mickey did, moving up until his tender, beard-burned, restless mouth pressed against his boyfriends. He kissed him softly, Jackson’s scruff sweetly stinging him. Fuck, they had really kissed for a long time earlier that night; Mickey’s mouth was begging for rest, but he didn’t want to give it any. 

“Just need to touch you,” Mickey said, and the words felt strange coming out of his mouth. Honest, no-bullshit, no trying to make light of it. 

He planted his elbows on either side of Jackson’s head, pressing their foreheads together, suppressing a shudder when hands slid around him, arms wrapping around his middle, holding him tight.

Predictably, like most times around Jackson, Mickey let himself just _be_. He said, “Not trying to fuck or anything, I just wanna touch you.” He didn’t know how to say that he was feeling so much right now, so many things swirling under his chest, swelling and glowing inside him. He didn’t know what words to use for that, so he kept silent, knees bending to move his legs on either side of Jackson’s hips.

Jackson tilted his chin up, brushing a soft, smiling kiss against Mickey’s mouth, “You’re more than welcome to touch me wherever you want.”

Mickey breathed a laugh, relaxing on top of Jackson a little more, melting against him, “You feel good,” he said. “Smell good.”

“Mm,” Jackson hummed, both of his hands sliding up and down Mickey’s back, loving on him. He kept his eyes closed, murmuring soft like he was falling back asleep, “You too.”

This was nice. Mickey scooted down a little, enough so he could press his face into the crook of Jackson’s neck and move his arms to tuck under his back and arms a little. He felt a gentle brush of fingers through the back of his hair before Jackson pulled the covers over them again. 

He probably looked stupid, but that need Mickey was feeling got warmer and lighter in his chest, like it was being soothed. Crawling on Jackson like this, laying on top of him like this —yeah, probably looked real dumb.

But then Jackson’s voice cut through the silence, whispering, “I like this,” and Mickey didn’t give a fuck how stupid he looked. It was just them. And right then and there nothing else fucking mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much cheese in this one. I mean, I guess they're cute. I guess. Half of me is really psyched about this chapter and the other half of me is like... wtf is this trash lmao (some of you might recognize that first scene thing from my tumblr) (also can you tell I wrote that last part while I was high & emotional? lol).
> 
> -thank you so much for all the love and support for this story! It's so fun writing and helps me move on from the shit-show they created in canon (cringing that it's canon). 
> 
> -If you ever have any questions about Mickey and Jackson, or want to know more about them, I actually made [a page on my tumblr](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/mickeyxjackson) because I have organizing issues, and there's just so much now lmao. It's still a work in progress.


	11. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait to post this tomorrow but... surprise! lmao
> 
> Also, there's some drama & angst in this. Just be prepared for stuff.

Sooner or later, it had to crash. Sooner or later, things had to come to light.

It was an odd sensation, knowing he was dreaming. Mickey stood in a long hallway, a sick beige color coating the walls. No one was around, though he heard the distant sounds of mens voices talking, yelling, laughing… but he was alone. He swallowed hard, looking around, looking down. 

The fluorescent lights above him made the baggy khaki scrubs he wore look almost greenish. D.O.C. ran down his leg in big black letters, reminding him of where he was. His blue shoes were worn out, a dotted brownish stain on the tip of the left one from when… he didn’t want to think about it. It was a blood stain. He didn’t want to think about it. 

“Inmate!” the voice that called down the hall was rough, mean, too much like Terry. Mickey’s head shot up, looking around until he saw the CO. But his blood ran cold. Because not only did the CO sound like Terry… the CO _was_ Terry.

Mickey shook his head, “No…”

Terry, wearing the typical corrections officer uniform, pointed a thick finger at him, snarl cutting across his mouth, “You’re coming with me, boy.”

Again, Mickey shook his head, moving his feet to walk away from him, “Fuck you.”

The hallway was incredibly long, with no doors or windows. A straight shot of light walls and bad lighting. Mickey heard Terry call after him two more times before his voice faded away. He didn’t look back, just kept walking away. He kept his eyes forward until out of fucking _nowhere_ , about a hundred feet in front of him, someone walked across the hallway, out of one door and into another.

But he knew that someone. He knew that curly hair, and that walk. “Jackson?” he whispered, picking his pace up, jogging down to where he saw his boyfriend. Why was Jackson there? Jackson shouldn't be there.

Mickey’s footfalls echoed through the hall as he moved quickly, coming up to the door that Jackson had entered. Another long hallway, at the end of it, Jackson was walking away from Mickey, taking his time like he didn’t know he was being watched.

“Jack!” Mickey, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “Jackson!” he tried again. Nothing, still. Fuck. He ran, ran as hard as he could until he came up on Jackson, reaching for his shoulder to turn him around.

He was beautiful, a grin curling in the corner of his mouth, dark eyes lit up as he saw Mickey. His khaki scrubs were newer than Mickey’s were, the D.O.C. lettering showing no signs of wear and tear. “Hey babe,” he said, like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Mickey shook his head, “You can’t be here, it’s not safe.”

Jackson looked confused, tilting his head, “Don’t you love me?”

Mickey drew his brows together, struck speechless by Jackson’s odd response. He opened his mouth, but as soon as he did, a hand clamped down over it. He was being pulled back, being pulled away from Jackson. 

Immediately he remembered things he didn’t want to remember. He remembered _hands_ and _words_ and _bodies_ that he had forced himself to forget. “Get the fuck off me!” he yelled, muffled and unrecognizable. He didn’t want those hands pulling him away, he wanted Jackson. He reached out as Jackson did the same, their fingertips brushing each other. He screamed under the hand that kept him quiet, flailing, trying to get away from whoever was pulling him back.

“Mickey,” Jackson called for him, sounding impatient. He was getting smaller, the further Mickey was being pulled away. “Mickey!”

He knew this was a dream, somehow he knew. And then he felt a hand slip over his forehead, and he snapped. It became real, remembering being held down, hand pressed tightly on his forehead, keeping his head still —he couldn’t… no. _No_.

With a kick, a violent gasp for air, Mickey woke up, and he woke up swinging, feeling real hands on him, feeling a real touch on his forehead. He reacted, scrambling to grab whoever touched him, whoever held him like that, and the next thing he knew, he had his fingers wrapped around Jackson’s throat, pinning him down not the bed, his other arm raised beside his head, ready to throw a punch.

“Mickey!” Jackson gasped, his hands raised, ready for defense. “Mickey, stop! It’s me!”

Everything sank. Mickey instantly — _instantly—_ felt like shit, felt like a fucking monster. He moved as fast as he could, putting space between him and his boyfriend, “I’m sorry,” he murmured, a wave of sick washing over him. Over and over he said, “I’m sorry… fuck, I’m sorry.”

As he moved off the bed, trying to put more space between the two of them, Jackson slowly rose from the bed also, looking like he was approaching a spooked horse. Mickey shook his head violently, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do.

“Are you okay?” Jackson asked, his voice low.

He blinked, looking around the dark bedroom, watching as Jackson flicked on the bedside lamp, just a few feet away from him. Mickey pressed his back against the wall behind him, taking deep breaths, trying to settle himself. He was safe. He had known it was a dream the whole time, but he reminded himself he was okay, he was with Jackson, he was safe.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, realizing just then that his hands were shaking. He brought his hands up to his face, pressing the heels to his eyes. _Don’t be a bitch, don’t be a bitch, don’t be a bitch_. “I’m sorry, I uh… fuck, I’m sorry.” He couldn’t get anything else out.

He didn’t want Jackson to see him like this. _Don’t be a bitch, pull yourself together_. Mickey took another deep breath.

“It’s okay,” Jackson’s voice was soft, patient.

It wasn’t okay, but Mickey didn’t correct him. He let his hands fall to his sides when he was sure that he wasn’t going to fall apart, finally meeting his boyfriend’s dark, concerned eyes. No judgement, just worried and patient.

“What do you need?” Jackson asked him. He looked like he wanted to come closer, looked like he wanted to reach out. Mickey glanced down to the other man’s hands, seeing his fingers curl and relax, his arms tense like he was holding back.

Mickey took a step forward. Then another, closing some space between them. He hesitated, not knowing how to say what he wanted to say, do what he wanted to do. But Jackson just looked at him for a moment before somehow understanding, then closed the space between them fully, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, hugging him tightly.

He held onto his boyfriend like a life raft, tight and solid, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, slowing feeling his muscles relax into Jackson’s warm body. He breathed him in, listening to Jackson’s steady breaths, making his body breathe in time with him.

“I got you,” Jackson whispered. Mickey believed him. He squeezed him a little tighter, murmuring yet another apology, hating himself for putting his hands on Jackson like that —accident or not, knee-jerk reaction to a dream, or not… he didn’t like it. It made him feel like shit, hated that panicked, scared look in his boyfriends eyes for that brief second.

A few minutes later, after Mickey felt good enough to untangle from Jackson, he was gently pulled down to sit on the floor. He didn’t ask questions, watching his boyfriend sit across from him against the bed while Mickey leaned his back against the wall. They were only a couple feet apart, boxers and hair throughly rumpled from sleep.

“You wanna talk about it?” Jackson asked him.

Mickey took a deep breath, debating with himself. He had told himself to leave it all behind. Told himself that that part of his life was over, he didn’t have to go back. Didn’t matter how unrealistic that was, that had been the plan.

He trusted Jackson, he honestly did. But if he was going to talk about shit… “You got any weed?” he asked his boyfriend.

Jackson didn’t say anything as he raised up to his knees and shimmied over to the nightstand. He rooted around a drawer for a minute before coming back with a blue glass object and a lighter, a small sympathetic grin on his mouth.

So they got high. And then Mickey, surprising himself, started talking. He didn’t say _everything_ , he didn’t give Jackson the full story of his entire nine years in prison, but he told him things that he never thought he’d ever tell anyone. Things that happened to him. Things that happened to other people by his hand -or not even by his hand, but things he _saw_. Things he had to do to survive. He was scared to tell Jackson these things, scared that this man who he cared about so deeply would look at him with fear or disgust, would throw him out into the cold, in the middle of the night… would tell him it’s over. Just like that.

But he didn’t, and maybe Mickey should have known that Jackson wouldn’t do that. Maybe he should have known that his boyfriend was inhumanly _wonderful_ sometimes. 

What Jackson did was set aside the bowl and lighter, reached over for Mickey’s hands, held them, pulled them until Mickey pushed off of the wall and followed Jackson’s lead, straddling his lap, letting his boyfriend hold him like that. Maybe it was because he was high, but Mickey didn’t really give a fuck about how it looked. Jackson wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist, pressing a soft kiss to his lips while Mickey wrapped his arms around his shoulders, relaxing into him.

“You’re safe now,” Jackson whispered. “You know that, right? You’re safe —and you’re safe with me too.”

Mickey nodded, feeling his eyes sting a little as he pressed his face into the crook of Jackson’s neck. He couldn’t speak. His tongue wouldn’t allow for it right now.

“You’re safe,” Jackson repeated, holding onto Mickey tight. Mickey nodded again.

 

* * *

 

One of the few good things about South Side being gentrified was that there were things like _bakeries_ now. Mickey stopped by one on the way home, picking up half a dozen donuts to surprise Yev with. He was _trying_ to be in a better mood since that bullshit nightmare, so fuck it. 

Waking up with Jackson wrapped around him had soothed a lot. But he kept thinking of his boyfriend’s face when Mickey fully came-to after he woke up. He kept seeing his fingers wrapped around Jackson’s throat, felt the weight of his arm raised, ready to strike. 

Mickey still kind of felt like a monster, even though Jackson said it was okay. He didn’t really think he’d ever forgive himself for that, and made a promise to himself when he woke up, feeling arms and legs wrapped around him, feeling warm breath tickling the side of his neck, he made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t _ever_ let that happen again, mistake or not. And if it did… well, Mickey wouldn’t be able to handle seeing Jackson’s face like that. He wouldn’t subject someone he cared about to that, no one deserves that.

The bakery gave him his pink box of sweets (Mickey immediately took one of the Boston cream’s out when he got into the car, and scarfed it down), and charged him way more money than Mickey thought six fucking donuts cost. He gave the girl behind the counter a shitty smile and left. Never going there again, fuck.

When he got back home, whatever remnants of _any_ sort of hope for a good mood Mickey had fizzled, curling up inside of him and burned at the edges, when he realized very quickly that there was someone _else_ in the apartment.

“The fuck’re you doing here?” Mickey asked.

Ian looked up from his phone, standing in the middle of the living room, one hand in his pocket. His brows rose high when he saw Mickey, mouth dropping open a little like his explanation of why he was there got caught in his throat —like he hadn’t expected Mickey to be there for some reason.

“I uh… was going to take Yev to school,” Ian said. “He’s getting ready to go.”

Mickey frowned, “Since when?”

Ian shrugged, pocketing his phone, “I take him sometimes.”

“Well, I’m taking him today,” Mickey said, not really meaning to sound so flippant when he said it, but it just came out that way. 

He headed to the kitchen to put the box of donuts on the counter. The redhead hadn’t even really done anything to Mickey to warrant the attitude he was getting, and Mickey knew this, but it just happened. Mickey didn’t want Ian there, didn’t want to talk to him right now, wasn’t expecting this little exchange this morning. Probably didn't help that just hours ago, he was scaring the ever-loving fuck out of his boyfriend.

He’d already felt like shit, and then came home to his ex standing in his living room, and all of a sudden he was reminded that Ian was still around —was not only still around, but had been around for Yev’s entire life. And there was part of Mickey that resented the fuck out of that. They had left things on a fairly good note last time, but all of that seemed to fly directly out of the window, and Mickey didn’t even attempt to catch it. Everything piled up on top of each other, and _honestly_ , Ian didn’t even have a _chance_ to escape Mickey’s attitude.

Ian was silent for a moment. Mickey could see him from where he was standing at the counter; he watched him, watched his face crease in a frown, his jaw shifting a little like he was trying to figure out how to say whoever the fuck he wanted to say.

“He asked me to take him, last night,” Ian finally said.

Mickey nodded, “Okay, well I’m here now. So I’m going to take _my_ _son_ to school.”

Jesus, he knew it was a low blow. He knew that was shitty —as soon as it left his mouth, Mickey bit his lip hard because what just came out wasn’t okay. And Ian breathed this humorless laugh as he nodded his head, then shook it, like he couldn't believe Mickey said that either.

“Wow, really?” 

Mickey shrugged. He almost wanted to apologize for what he said, but his mouth wouldn’t do it. He didn’t care right then. Wrong day for Ian to come around. There was so much old shit, from so long ago, crashing over Mickey like a tidal wave. But none of the old shit was the _good_ shit. None of it made him smile at the memory, or reminisce on those good moments they shared. No.

Because last night Mickey had a nightmare. Didn’t matter that Ian didn’t know. He had a nightmare about _real_ shit that he went through, about prison. Mickey got sent away for nine fucking years, and Ian stepped up to help Svetlana with Yev. And Ian got to see those first steps. He got to see _all_ the firsts. And Mickey knew that it was slightly irrational to resent Ian for his missed time with his son, but he did. And he didn’t even fully recognize that until he walked into the apartment and saw him standing there, waiting for Yev, to take him to school —like it was the most _normal_ thing in the world. (it probably was)

“Look,” Mickey sighed. “I stopped and got him donuts, thought I’d surprise him and take him to school.”

Apparently Ian was feeling some negative shit too, because he rolled his eyes and huffed a noise, “He needs an actual _meal_ for breakfast, Mickey, not sweets.”

Who the fuck… Mickey pulled a face at his ex as he walked out of the kitchen, “Are you fucking kidding me? He can have a donut for breakfast. Fuck, he can have two or three, I don’t give a shit.”

“He needs a meal,” Ian said carefully. “ _That’s_ not a meal.”

Mickey crossed his arms in front of his chest, heat spreading over his back quickly, “Don’t hold back now, Gallagher. Say what you wanna fucking say.”

Ian nodded, “Okay… _I’ve_ been at this longer than you have.” 

Mickey took a deep breath, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. His whole body was so tense, and hot. He felt like his jacket was trying to suffocate him. There was a shift in the air —and not in the good way. Mickey’s last meeting with Ian had been relatively nice, but there was nothing _nice_ about the air in the apartment right now. 

“If he has straight sugar in the morning, he’s gonna crash at school later,” Ian continued, a slight edge to his voice.

Mickey got a bad taste in his mouth as he let it run, “And you’d know that because _you've_ been here for the past nine years while I got locked up.”

“That’s right,” Ian said. “I’ve been here for him while you got your ass locked up.”

Mickey clenched his fists, giving Ian a hard look, “Keep talking.”

Ian just shrugged, shaking his head, “Just saying what I got to say, Mick, just like you told me to. You wanna be a parent, you gotta—“

“Don’t fucking tell me how to be a parent,” Mickey cut him off. “You fucking Gallagher’s think your better than all the rest of us —fuck you.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you, Mickey,” Ian said. “I just _know_ him! Every time he’s had something like that for breakfast before school, he gets all hyped up then later he fucking crashes, and acts out. It’s called _thinking_ , Mick.”

Mickey snarled as he stepped closer to Ian, “You wanna talk about thinking? How about not opening your fucking mouth and telling Yev we used to be together. Why don’t you start with that, _Ian_.” He spit Ian’s name out like a poison.

Ian’s face went hard and red, and before Mickey knew it, they were yelling at each other. Hands waving around as they spoke, brows creased angrily, trying to yell over each other. Mickey didn’t even know what he was saying half the time, he was just letting it out, and apparently so was Ian. 

A couple times Mickey had to held himself back from putting his hands on Ian because he caught a comment about how he had gotten himself thrown in prison. A couple times, Mickey let another low blow towards Ian slip from his mouth, about how he’d locked Yev in the car when he was a baby —how he wasn’t _really_ Yev’s father, so he had no right. 

It was a dirty, shitty argument. And both of them cut deep, both of them said the wrong things. They didn’t even notice when Yev came out of his room, wide blue eyes round like saucers as he watched them.

“Enough!” Svetlana’s voice cut through Ian and Mickey’s yelling. She stood between them and Yev, face hard and severe; her hair was wet from her shower, dripping onto the big sweatshirt she had apparently just thrown on. 

First she looked at Ian, “It is not your place to give him parenting advice. And don’t _ever_ use prison against him again, do you understand? You of _all_ people do not get to hold that against him,” Ian stayed silent as Svetlana then turned to Mickey, “And don’t you _ever_ say that he is not Yevgeny’s father. He might not be blood, be he is our son’s father too. I know you know that. _Both_ of you know better, so stop acting like children!”

Mickey opened his mouth to speak, but Svetlana raised her hand in front of his face, “ _I’m_ taking my son to school. Come, Yevgeny, we’ll get breakfast on the way.”

It was kind of heartbreaking, watching Yev look at him with wide, confused eyes, then over at Ian. It was the first time that the kid had ever seen them in the same room together. First time he saw them interact at all. 

And _this_ , them yelling at each other in the middle of the living room, Mickey knew was not what he had envisioned. Yev had idealistic fantasies about Mickey and Ian getting along, laughing and falling back in love, being together again. And right now, Mickey could see that realization, that hurt, in his sons eyes. He’d never get that. His dads would never be together because _apparently_ this is what happened when they were in the same room together.

Shit.

Mickey looked over at Ian, his blood threatening to boil. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms under his chest. 

“This how it’s gonna be now?” Ian asked him.

Mickey’s brows raised on their own accord, high and petulant, “You come in here tryna tell me how to father, then yeah.”

Ian shook his head as he sucked his teeth. He dug his car keys out of his pocket and shook his head again at Mickey, “I wasn’t trying to tell you—”

“Oh fuck off, yes you were,” Mickey cut Ian off. “Maybe I shouldn’t’ve said he wasn’t your kid, because he _is_ your kid… but you got nine years with him. I had to watch him grow up on the other side of fucking bullet proof glass.”

“You want me to back off,” Ian said, his jaw going hard again.

Mickey sighed, “I didn’t say that.”

“Sounds like it. Sounds like what you said before about not taking him away from me was bullshit.”

“I’m saying it’s my fucking turn, Ian,” Mickey told him. “I appreciate you being there for him, and helping Svet to raise him. He’s your kid too, and I’m not tryna take that away from you. But it’s my turn.”

“So you do want me to back off,” Ian glared at him.

He was getting hot all over again, feeling tense and sick all at once. “I just want my fucking turn! That’s all I want, Ian. Let me give my kid a fucking donut for breakfast! Let me do this my fucking way!”

“You don’t _have_ a way!” Ian snarled at him. 

“I’ll figure it out!” Mickey snarled back. Fuck this. Fuck him. He didn’t get caged up like a damn _animal_ to have this bullshit waiting for him when he got out. “It’s _my_ turn, it’s _my_ son, and you know what… you _do_ need to back the fuck off!”

“You can’t just take him away from me,” Ian was breathing hard, brows creased sharply. “You said you wouldn’t —Svet wouldn’t let that happen.”

“I’m not _trying_ to take him away from you,” Mickey said slowly. “But you know what, I fucking could.”

“Fuck you, Mickey,” Ian spat, heading for the door.

Mickey waved at him, “Yeah, fuck you too.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey cursed under his breath as he hauled a case out beer out from the back, letting it set down hard on the floor behind the bar. He was pissed. He’d already been in kind of a gross mood, and then motherfucker had to pop up and make it worse. He felt eyes on him from the other end of the bar, where Vee was, but he ignored her —tried to ignore her. Didn’t last.

“What crawled up your ass?” she asked him.

Mickey shook his head as he opened the case of beer, trying to keep his mouth shut as he moved the bottles to the tub of ice. Again, didn’t last. He stopped, not giving a fuck about the few regulars dotting the bar, and stood up, arms extending to either side of him in exasperation.

“Apparently, giving a child a fucking donut for breakfast is a mortal _fucking_ sin,” he said. “And what I thought was a fucking truce wasn’t _shit_ , because I can’t stand that motherfucker, and he sure as hell can’t stand me.”

Vee pressed her lips together, hand on her hip, “You’re fighting with Ian?”

“Yes,” Mickey grunted, running a hand over his hair.

Vee frowned, “Thought you two hashed everything out?”

“We did,” Mickey said shortly. 

He opened his mouth, then promptly shut it again, stopping himself from going into all that bullshit about how his history with Ian hurt, no matter how much he had moved on from their relationship, how he honest-to-god did not want to get back together with the redhead, that past shit still _hurt_. Sure, they had talked, had their little moment of closure, but it didn't erase shit. It didn’t make it better. Mickey didn’t think _anything_ could really make it better.

Vee pushed her locs over her shoulder as she moved closer, wiping down the bar on the way, “Listen, I understand that you two have some seriously fucked up shit behind you. And you probably don’t care about my opinions, but I’mma give them to you anyway.”

Mickey chewed on his lower lip as he got back to work, smart enough not to cut Vee off while she was talking. He didn’t really want to hear this, but the last time he copped an attitude with Vee and cut her off, she got the look of actual death in her eyes.

“You’re Yev’s dad, and no one is trying to take that away from you. You got a chance to be a father now —Ian’s been a father for the past ten years, and even though you are Yev’s actual father, it’s like some new dude is coming in and trying to step on his toes, trying to be Yev’s new dad. Does that make sense?”

Mickey shook his head, “I don’t care, Vee. I’m his fucking dad.”

“And no one’s saying you’re not,” Vee said. “I’m just saying that Ian needs to adjust to this fucked up parenting situation you all got going on. You need to adjust too. So give it time —and fighting about it, instead of being adults, isn’t gonna help anyone, especially that little boy.”

Mickey sighed, feeling tense and needing to smoke. He nodded to let her know that he heard her.

“Can you at least try to look someone happy to be here?” Vee reached over and poked his shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. Mickey didn’t really have it in him; he gave her a look, keeping his mouth shut. She made a noise in the back of her throat, eyes rolling as she turned to go back over to the other end of the bar, “You’re killing me, Milkovich.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the deal with Ian and Mickey: I'm kind of treating them like a divorced couple that have no more romantic feelings towards each other, don't want each other back, but there's a mess in their history, and a lot of hurt feelings, so -for right now- they fight over petty shit like breakfast, and it escalates into just... grossness. That was a dumbass fight lbr. Dumb. As. Shit. They're basically bringing out the shittiest in each other right now. It's not gonna last forever, don't worry.
> 
> Also, I didn't go into detail about what Mickey went through in prison because... honestly, I know this sounds so odd, but it's personal to Mickey. If that makes sense? That was a really private conversation between him and Jackson & I wanted to give him that.


	12. Little Sister

Days passed since the incident with Ian. Mickey had talked to Yev about it, apologized for him having to see that shit. The kid seemed to accept the apology, but it was obvious that it still kinda stung that Mickey and Ian evidently couldn’t be that civil around each other for now. Mickey knew that they needed time. Maybe one day they could be friends. Maybe not, who knows. They were never _just_ friends though, so he didn’t know how that would work.

He felt better though, and that was all he really cared about. Hanging out with Jackson, getting away from all the other bullshit for a couple hours… it was important. Being with Jackson was important, Mickey realized. It felt good —not to be all fucking hippie dippy, but it felt good for his fucking soul, or something like that.

“Do you trust me?” Mickey whispered, his lips brushing Jackson’s when he spoke. He kissed him softly, sighing when Jackson tugged a little on his bottom lip with his own, tongue wetting his skin, coaxing Mickey to open up. 

God, he could kiss him for days. Mickey pressed as close as he could while he straddled his boyfriend’s lap, feeling arms snake around his middle. Jackson’s hair was soaking wet, dripping onto Mickey’s skin as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders, deepening their kiss. He tasted like coffee, and maple syrup from breakfast, just a hint of cigarettes. Like Jackson in the morning. Like home.

“Yes,” Jackson pulled back enough to answer, but went back in for more kissing, holding onto Mickey tightly, hands sneaking up the back of his shirt, teasing around the waist of his jeans, trying to dip under that layer of clothing.

Mickey grinned against his mouth, slowly pulling away so he could slide off Jackson’s lap. His boyfriend pushed his bottom lip out and made grabby hands for Mickey, whining a little.

“Five more minutes,” Jackson tried to bargain.

Mickey shook his head, “Gotta do this now.” Five more minutes would turn into fucking on the chair in the middle of the kitchen. And while that sounded like a good time, they had places to be, so they had to do this now.

He grabbed the pair of hair cutting scissors and comb off the kitchen counter, moving to stand behind Jackson. He just needed a trim, nothing more than an inch (so Mickey could still grab on and run his fingers through it). This was kind of relaxing for Mickey, too. Being able to focus on just one thing and forget about all the bullshit in the back of his mind. To just do something for someone else like this. It was nice.

“How’d you learn how to do this, anyway?” Jackson asked him after a few minutes.

Mickey wet his lips while he worked, “Eh, dunno, just picked it up as a kid. But I worked in the prison barber shop for a good five years.”

“No shit?” 

Mickey snorted a laugh, “No shit.”

Jackson hummed, letting Mickey move his head around, “You like doing it?”

“Yeah,” Mickey replied, catching his tongue in the corner of his mouth. 

It was a weird thing that he tried not think think about too much, actually. He’d never miss prison, but he had kind of missed working in the shop. Bullshitting around with the other inmates, cutting hair, doing something he enjoyed. He didn’t think about it too much because he’d tried to cut out that chunk of his life as soon as he got out. Good and bad.

“I uh, got my GED while I was locked up, too,” Mickey added, voice low. He didn’t know why. Maybe because when he passed that stupid fucking test, he felt like… something. He felt a little proud of himself, like at least he did _something_ somewhat productive.

He couldn’t see Jackson’s face, but he heard the gentle smile in his voice when he said, “That’s awesome.” Mickey felt a hand wrap around his calf —Jackson had reached back to touch him, squeezing him a little. “Should be proud of yourself.”

Mickey’s cheeks went a little warm; he was glad Jackson couldn’t see.

They were quiet again, while Mickey cut Jackson’s hair, running his fingers through it, making sure it was even where it needed to be even, cutting the sides and back a little shorter than the top, like he had it before. It was a good cut on Jackson, let his curls lay nice.

When he stepped in front of Jackson, moving between his legs so he could check that part of the cut, his boyfriend reached out and ran the back of his knuckles against Mickey’s clothed thigh, softly, absentmindedly. 

“How’s it look?” Jackson asked.

“Good,” Mickey nodded. He didn’t like to brag, but he did fucking good work. He had a knack for cutting hair (shit, you kind of had to be good, working in a prison —people didn’t fuck around about their hair, so you couldn’t mess it up).

Jackson looked up at him, grinning wide, “Sexy?”

Mickey snorted a laugh, dipping down to brush a kiss across his lips, “Yeah, you look sexy.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Jump in the shower with me, then we’ll go.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but nodded, pulling Jackson to stand. He was covered in hair, the little pieces of strands sticking to his chest and shoulders. “I’ll sweep this up, go ahead—”

“I’ll get it later,” Jackson said, tugging gently on Mickey’s hand. “Babe, come on, make sure I don’t drown.”

Again, Mickey rolled his eyes, a wide smile cracking over his mouth. He followed his boyfriend to the bathroom, trying to push down the little flutter he felt in his stomach. He wondered, briefly, if it would always be like this. If he’d always feel butterflies beating around inside him, if he’d always feel good around the other man. He hoped so, fuck, he really hoped so.

When they get under the water, the whole bathroom is basically a steam room, muggy and warming up Mickey’s lungs. Jackson likes it like that, and Mickey can’t complain —it’s nice. Getting the little hairs off of Jackson is relatively easy, but Mickey draws it out, hands gliding over his boyfriends skin, over the ink embedded into it, the pictures that have different meanings to them.

Jackson has _I must not tell lies_ tattooed on the back of his hand. It’s the newest one, yet another Harry Potter themed tattoo. Mickey wasn’t completely clueless when it came to the books, but Jackson refreshed his memory. He traces his fingers over the somewhat crooked letters while they stand under the hot water; while Jackson leans over to kiss at his neck.

He got it to remind himself to stand up for his truth, no matter what. That’s what Jackson had said when Mickey asked him about it. Mickey didn’t really have a connection to books or movies like that, not to the point of tattooing images or words onto his body in honor of them. But he respected how much it meant to Jackson, knew that those books meant so much to him as a child, because he’d been so lonely.

It’s kind of unsettling for Mickey, knowing how alone Jackson had been when he was so little. He sighs softly, feeling his boyfriends lips brush over his neck again. He moved, hands soft as he slips them into his wet curls, moving enough to catch his lips in a kiss. He feels a protectiveness in his chest, for the other man. Mickey keeps moving, moves Jackson to lean against the cool tile wall. It’s like he’s shielding him from the rest of the world, creating a little trapped space just for them. 

The air around them shifts, and Mickey keepshis lips soft, almost lazy, against Jackson’s. Water rains down on them, getting into their eyes and mouths, the heat probably making both of their skins pink and tender. Doesn’t matter.

Jackson’s mouth is slack and breathing hard against Mickey’s, hands curling around his hips, pulling him closer. Mickey moves his lips to Jackson’s throat, fingers curling into his hair, tugging just slightly, just enough to get Jackson to breathe a little harder. It’s just them, and the heat of the water, the heat of the steam, almost suffocating. Jackson doesn’t even try to do it, but he overwhelms everything inside of Mickey, choking out doubt and inhibitions. Mickey doesn’t ever want Jackson to feel lonely again. Doesn’t ever want him to feel anything else but good.

They don’t talk. It’s only the sound of the hot water hitting their skin and the floor of the shower. Mickey feels Jackson hardening against him, feels waves of want roll off of him. He nips and kisses at his throat, one hand moving out of Jackson’s hair, moving down his body, firm pressure, full of purpose. He glides down the wet skin, down his ribs and hip to between Jackson’s lets, wrapping his fingers around him, getting him there, making him swell more. 

Mickey presses his forehead against Jackson’s. He kisses him. He sucks his bottom lip between his own then lets it go. Jackson whimpers, arms wrapping around Mickey’s shoulders like he’s trying to hold himself up as Mickey strokes him.

So Mickey wraps his other arm around Jackson’s waist, holding him up. He looks into his dark eyes like he knows he likes, and nods, “I got you.”

There are about ten million other words on Mickey’s tongue, but they won’t come out. They’re shy. He can only give Jackson _I got you_ , as he takes care of him, as he makes him feel good. It feels good to make Jackson feel good, too. He feels good in Mickey’s hand, feels good against him. It feels good to have to hold him up, under the water; feels good to kiss a breathless, aching mouth.

“Mick,” Jackson breathes.

“I got you,” Mickey says again. He doesn’t know if it makes sense, but it’s all he can think of right now. He’s got him. He’s not going anywhere. He’s not gonna leave him alone, for as long as Jackson wants him there. He’s got him. “I got you.”

He presses Jackson against the wall a little harder, kissing him harder, swallowing up a loud moan as he keeps working him, steady and tight. He’s got him. He’s got him. Jackson sags in Mickey’s hold, and it’s kind of really fucking important, because It solidifies for Mickey that his boyfriend really does trust him. He’s got him.

 

* * *

 

Mickey snorts a laugh into his beer, watching Jackson’s face crinkle up in a loud laugh, head falling forward; Mickey loves that. Benny is laughing too, long tattooed arms animated as he waves them around during his telling of the time he went with Jackson to a gay club years ago —the first time Benny had _ever_ been to one, and almost went home with someone.

“You fucking loved it!” Jackson wiped at his eyes. He laughed again, his shoulder pressing against Mickey’s hand sliding under the table to rest on Mickey’s thigh, just to touch him.

“I don’t know why you keep saying you’re straight,” Delia quirks an eyebrow at Benny, from across the table. “You shoulda gone home with the guy. Pop that cherry.”

Benny says he’s straight, but no one really fully sees it, maybe except for Jackson. Mickey is over worrying about him and Jackson, because it’s obvious to him now that the guy is made of stuffed animals and ice cream cones. He’s also pretty sure he’s got some kind of Adult ADD, or something.

“ _Listen_ ,” Benny says, reaching for another slice of deep dish. “The guy was stupid attractive, okay? I’m not even gonna deny that shit. Dude was hot. If my dick were on board, I woulda gone home with him.”

Mickey likes Benny. He’s funny, and totally comfortable in his own skin, beyond comfortable with his sexuality. Honestly, he kind of wishes he were more like that, he wishes he were that comfortable to say shit like that, and not give a fuck about the two pinched-faced girls a table over, giving Benny’s words a foul look. Mickey reaches for Jackson’s hand on his thigh, slipping his fingers in the spaces between.

After dinner, Mickey stands outside with Jackson and Benny, having one last cigarette before they go. Benny gestures to Jackson as he blows a cloud of smoke away from their little group, “Hair cut?”

Jackson nodded with a grin, “Mickey cut it.” He turned his head side to side so Benny could get a good look, and Mickey rolled his eyes, suppressing a grin.

Benny’s brows shot up, looking over at Mickey, “Seriously?”

Mickey gave a little laugh, shrugging, “Yeah.”

“Mickey, that’s the best fucking haircut he’s ever had.”

“I know, right? He can fucking cut, I had no idea,” Jackson smiled wide as he ran his hand over the top of his hair, pushing back the curls that were laying down rather fucking nice, if Mickey had to be honest. He felt the back of his neck heat up a little, from Jackson and Benny's words, giving another little shrug.

Benny reached out, knocking Mickey’s shoulder, “Dude, the fuck’re you doing working in a bar? Can you hook me up?”

A little swell of pride boomed in Mickey’s chest, feeling the heat creep from the back of his neck to his cheeks. He knew he was good, but it still caught him off guard. “Uh, sure, yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Then there’s the guilt. Mickey’s been out of the can for under year now, and he hasn’t seen or spoken to his brothers —or his sister. There’s guilt because there’s fear, especially when it comes to his brothers. He doesn’t want to live how he used to, he doesn’t want to run guns and drugs, doesn’t want to live that life anymore. He’s got a kid he’s supposed to show an example to; he’s supposed to turn it around. 

Unfortunately, Iggy’s been in lock-up for the past two years, but he’s in Indiana. Got caught with a couple unlicensed guns. Shit adds up. Colin… well, Mickey doesn’t really know where Colin is. Last he heard, he was headed down to Florida for some business. That was five years ago. Mickey doesn’t really think the worst, but he’s not exactly thinking the best either. Not really thinking Colin is shacked up with a good woman, working a nine-to-five.

Mickey looks at Yev, and it’s like the entire world is terrifying. This part of South Side isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it still isn’t great. He’d feel better if his kid could make it out one day. Yev can make it out; he’s smart. Smarter than Mickey ever was.

There’s a surprise waiting for Mickey when he gets home from picking Yev up from school. The kid walks through the door first and gasps so loud that Mickey almost trips while he scrambles up behind him, moving to the living room, to see what was going on.

“Aunt Mandy!” Yev cries; he rushes her, clings to her, making her laugh.

And Mickey is frozen. Guilt icing his veins, watching the way his sister bends down with a big smile on her face to wrap her slim arms around his son, “Hey!”

She looks good; dressed real nice, nicer than he’s ever seen. Her coat looks expensive. Shiny shoes with pointed toes. Her hair is down, and ten shades of perfectly coordinated blonde, but her eyes are that same blue, just like his. Miles of stories behind Mandy’s eyes, and Mickey only knows a fraction of them, but at the same time, he knows all of them. That’s just how it’s been.

When Mandy hugs Mickey, it’s like they were never apart. They were never best friends (never even really friends at all), were never super close, but close enough to step up and do anything for each other, no questions asked. Standard Milkovich sibling relationship. She could probably still kick his ass.

“You smell nice,” Mandy’s voice is muffled into his neck; she’s not letting go, and neither is Mickey. He can’t, not yet.

But that makes him grin; a memory bubbling up from the ashes, “Not like barbecue sauce?”

She must have remembered too, because she laughs, easing away, wiping at her eyes a little; she’s actually crying, and Mickey can’t remember if he’s ever seen her cry. “No, no you don’t smell like barbecue sauce, fucker.”

Svetlana made dinner; Yev rattles off most of the time, asking Mandy a million questions, telling her all about school. Yev loves his Aunt Mandy, he looks at her like she hung the damn moon, and Mickey can’t help but smile at that. Mandy loves Yev too, he can tell.

Mickey does the dishes after dinner, watching Mandy and Yev in the living room. She’s showing him pictures of something on her phone. Svetlana had to run down to the bar for a little bit, so it’s just the three of them in the apartment. It’s so surreal, seeing Mandy. Almost ten fucking years without seeing his little sister. Hard to believe.

Then, after Yev goes to bed, Mandy follows Mickey out onto the fire escape so they can smoke. It’s a little cramped on the metal platform, and they sit shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the flower shop across the street. Mickey let his sister slip on a pair of his boots, keeping her feet warm.

“So, what’s been going on?” Mickey asked her. “How’s the big apple?”

Mandy moved to New York sometime after getting away from that shithead boyfriend of hers all those years ago. Mickey can’t remember the guy’s name, he just remembered when she left. He’d been scared for her, but there was so much other shit going on too. Sometimes he wishes he could have done something. But you can’t tell Mandy shit; she’s going to do what she’s going to do. Plus the guy was fucking huge, if he remembers correctly. Mickey was tough back then, but everyone has their fucking limits.

He heard she got into escorting for a while. Like the nice kind, for an actual company or some shit, not like the kind that Mickey ran. Where the big bucks were. He didn’t have room to judge his sister —as long as she was safe, that’s all the really mattered. If Mickey had heard that she was hooking for a piece of shit pimp, like the kind Svetlana used to work for, he’d probably get sent back to prison for life.

“It’s good,” she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Got a couple things going on. Living with my boyfriend —he’s sweet. Family’s loaded.”

Mickey smirked over at his sister, “Real deal?”

Mandy nodded, looking glancing at him, “I love him. Like… for real. His family’s money is nice and whatever but… I don’t even care about that shit.”

She’s still Mandy, but she’s more grounded now. Not softer, Mandy would never be soft, but she’s different. In a good way. Mickey’s proud of her. “So what you got going on?”

She breathes a laugh, playing with the sleeve of her expensive jacket, “I got into interior design, somehow.”

Unexpected. Mickey’s eyebrows raise high, “Making rich people’s houses look nice, huh?”

Mandy nodded, grinning, “It pays good, alight?”

“Ay, I’m not shitting on it,” Mickey knocked her shoulder with his own. “Get that boughie money. Get all you can. What else you got going on?”

She was quiet for a moment, like she was trying to put the words together, pulling form her cigarette, stretching her legs out in front of her, “I’ve been moving women out of abusive homes. It’s this whole network. Kept real quiet, you know? It’s kind of complicated, how we have to move them, but it’s worth it. I wanna open a battered women’s shelter.”

Mickey took a long look at his sister. Fuck. He took a deep breath and carefully wrapped his arm around her shoulders, hugging her as he pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “Proud of you,” he told her.

She breathed a shaky laugh, “I was half expecting the _be careful_ speech.”

Mickey gave her a final squeeze before letting her go, “You’re Mandy fucking Milkovich. If anyone’s gonna get shit done, it’s you. You protecting yourself?”

“Of course,” Mandy said, almost sounded offended that he even asked. 

Mickey nodded, “Good.”

After they lit up their second cigarette, Mandy knocked her shoulder against Mickey’s, “So I heard you’ve got a new boyfriend.”

Mickey shook his head, laughing, “Yev?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “And Svet.”

He rolled his eyes. Of course. “Yeah… he’s uh, he’s cool.”

“You planning on bringing him around?”

Mickey shrugged, “Soon.” It’s been so nice having Jackson all to himself, but he knows that it has to happen eventually. Yev has asked a couple times, so has Svetlana. 

“You got a picture?” Mandy knocked her shoulder against his again. He could hear the smile in her voice.

With a dragged out groan, Mickey took his phone out of his jacket pocket and pulled up a picture of Jackson, handing his phone over to his sister. “Jackson,” he told her. 

It was from earlier that night, while he and Jackson were getting pizza with the rest of the people from the shop. Jackson had taken his phone and slung an arm around his shoulders, pressing close as he took the picture of the two of them, heads tilted towards each other. Jackson was grinning wide, Mickey smirking. After Jackson had taken the picture, he had turned his head to press a kiss to Mickey’s temple.

She was quiet for a second, looking at the picture closely, before her blue eyes darted up to look at Mickey, her brows raising and mouth dropping open, “Mickey,” she said. “He’s hot.”

He couldn't hold in the laugh, taking his phone back, “Roll your fucking tongue back in your mouth.” Mandy giggled, slipping her arm around his, huddling closer for warmth like it was the most natural thing in the world, laying her head on his shoulder. 

It was just about then that Mickey realized that they had truly grown up. And with growing up came a safety that neither one of them had ever known as children. Safe to just _be_. Safe without Terry around. Mandy seemed relaxed, calm even. She still had that essence of being the baddest bitch around, but Mickey couldn’t get over how… _happy_ she was. She was happy. Finally. Maybe this was who she really was, who she was always meant to be.

“I missed you,” Mandy said, voice soft. “Never thought I would, but I did.”

Mickey took a drag from his cigarette, tilting his head to rest on top of hers, letting himself relax. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I missed you too.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been a week since Mickey and Jackson were together. Mickey stayed home, spent time with Mandy while she was in town. Jackson encouraged him to stay with her, even when Mickey wanted to slip out for a night to see him. Mandy wouldn’t be back again for months —she had a whole life in New York now.

But now Mickey is back on Jackson’s couch, it’s quiet. They’re laid up together, with the gargoyle curled up next to them. Mickey’s running his fingers through Jackson’s hair —who’s got his head laying on his stomach, settled between Mickey’s legs, one of his favorite positions. There’s this show on, but Mickey’s not really paying that much attention to it. Some crime drama shit. There’s too many shows like that, they allblend together.

This is so fucking nice though. Mickey can imagine Yev at the kitchen table doing his homework, can imagine him playing video games with Jackson. That would be ideal anyway, Mickey still doesn’t know how Yev is going to react to meeting Jackson. Could go real wrong, real fast.

“You uh,” Mickey began, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as he pauses. “You wanna meet Yev and Svet next weekend?”

Jackson’s head pops up from where it was resting, dark eyes a little wide with surprise, “Seriously?”

Mickey chews on his bottom lip some more as he nods, “Yeah.”

“Wow,” Jackson grinned as he propped himself up a little, elbows planted on either side of Mickey’s hips. “Pretty serious,” he teased.

Nagini stirred from her spot next to Mickey, giving both of them a terrible glare, being woken up.She stood and stretched, giving them a small, cracking meow noise, then jumped off of the couch, heading for her tower. Nagini was a fucking drama queen.

“If you don’t wanna, that’s fine,” Mickey shrugged.

“No, I do,” Jackson replied quickly, doing a little shimmy-crawl up Mickey’s body. “I want to meet them —they’re your family.”

He felt warm all over, having Jackson look at him like that. There was so much of something in his dark eyes that Mickey hadn’t seen in a long time. A really long time. He recognized it, but kept his mouth shut, just in case he was wrong —he didn’t _think_ he was wrong though, someone doesn’t just look at you like that without… but maybe he was wrong. He didn't want to get ahead of himself, didn't want to set himself up for  hurt.

Mickey cleared his throat, “We could throw some burgers on the grill or something. Or maybe I can get Svet to cook, she’s pretty good.”

Jackson nodded, looking like he was trying to tame his smile, “Whatever you want to do.”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip for a minute as he looked at Jackson. “Is it going to be weird for you? To meet her?”

Jackson frowned, “I don’t think so. As long as she’s cool with us…”

“She is,” Mickey murmured, reaching down to wrap his fingers around Jackson’s arms, just holding him. “We were never, you know, together like that.”

Jackson paused, chewing on his bottom lip for a second, and Mickey knew his next question before it even came out of his mouth, “How were you together, then? Was it just an accident? I know you said you used to sleep with girls…”

Mickey swallowed hard, looking at his boyfriend. It might have been a little unfair, that he knew so much about Jackson’s childhood and past, while Jackson knew very little about his. Mickey didn’t feel that sense of dread and panic in the gut of his belly anymore, when it came to thinking about how Svetlana came into his life —how Yev came into his life. When Terry died, he took so much of Mickey’s fear and shame with him. 

But what if… what if Jackson looked at him different? It seemed irrational because Jackson hadn’t been judgmental of anything that Mickey had told him. But that question was floating around in the back of Mickey’s mind. What if he told Jackson, and then he’d have to explain Terry —and then he’d have to explain how he was raised. The dealing, the running, the senseless beatings he doled out to people who were just like him. Terry Milkovich, the violently homophobic, neo-Nazi prick. It didn’t look good. He wasn’t proud of his roots, wasn’t proud of who he had to be, growing up.

Iceberg.

“Yeah… it was an accident,” He said. It wasn’t _technically_ a lie, but it felt like it was. Tasted bad in his mouth. If Jackson caught on, he didn’t let it show. 

His boyfriend nodded, taking a long look at him, before seeming to catch on to Mickey’s silent hope to drop the subject. He stretched up quickly to press a quick kiss to Mickey’s lips before resting his head on his sternum, going back to watching the television.

Mickey chews on his bottom lip, bringing a hand up to run through Jackson’s hair again, sifting his fingers through the curls. Jackson curled his arms around Mickey, shoving his hands between Mickey and the couch, hugging onto him.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xavier Dolan got a new tattoo, so I had to incorporate it, obviously. Also, [my tumblr](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com) for updates, questions, etc :)
> 
> I wasn't a fan of the last chapter tbh, I almost deleted it a couple times. idk, I've just been going through some FEELINGS, and I think I let my frustrations (in terms of the show) get to me while I was writing. But I do want Mickey and Ian to be on a little rocky ground for right now, because I feel like it's realistic. idk. idk. I'm rambling. 
> 
> I realized when I was writing this, how much "I got you" is a theme with Mickey and Jackson :') OH AND [THIS LIL BABES MADE A THING](http://mckmlkvch.tumblr.com/post/146963227625) AND I MADE [A THING](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/147026071953/paint-night-inspired-by-this-bomb-ass-set-by) FOR THAT THING AND <333


	13. Three Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this immediately, before I can second guess anything else. It's been a battle.
> 
> CW: some biphobia, and talking about Mickey's past

Mickey closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. It wasn’t so bad, but getting stabbed over and over again by a bunch of tiny needles wasn’t exactly like taking a trip to a fucking day spa. 

“Ay, you almost done?” Mickey asked.

Jackson grinned as he worked, all hunched over Mickey’s forearm, “Almost. Be patient. You owe me a back rub for this, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey rolled his eyes, looking around the shop. There were a few other people getting work done. Benny wasn’t there —up at his shop in North Side for the next few weeks. Omar’s got a little blonde cheerleader looking girl in his chair, while Elias is working on a guy who Mickey swears is a fucking giant. 

Then he looks at Jackson again, and his stomach tightens up a little. Jackson keeps poking the tip of his tongue out between his lips as he works. His warm breath bleeds over Mickey’s skin. Mickey wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him all the time. It’s kind of scary, how much the guy effects him, how deeply he’s dug under Mickey’s skin —nestled down in there, made a little home. 

In a few hours, Mickey’s taking his boyfriend home. He’s nervous. Doesn’t know how Yev is going to act, or if Svetlana will give Jackson a hard time just because she loves making men squirm. Fuck, what if she thinks Jackson is attractive? What if… Mickey pushes all that aside. He’s gotta stop that shit.

A few days ago, Jackson let Mickey look through one of his sketch books. He draws random things, some pictures of tattoo ideas, some pictures just because he likes to draw. There were a couple of Mickey in there, sleeping. It made his face get all hot, and Jackson even got a little pink in the cheeks too. Mickey didn’t give him any shit for it, just raised an eyebrow at him and rolled his eyes —couldn’t stop the smile. It kind of made him feel special, to be honest. Jackson drew him with his face all relaxed, all curled up in sheets, dead to the world. It was nice. 

And then Mickey found this tattoo idea that Jackson had been sitting on. It wasn’t for anyone particular, but something about it really jumped out at Mickey, and he probably sat there and stared down at the drawing for a good five minutes. It was black and grey, kind of badass and dark. A skull with some flowers. He’d always wanted a skull tattoo, and evidently flowers weren’t just for chicks, and that was kind of cool, because like… flowers were nice. 

And so Mickey took a deep breath and asked Jackson if it would be okay if he could get this done. And the look on Jackson’s face was more than worth it. His face got even pinker, and he looked really proud of himself, or something, all flustered and cute, and Mickey had to kiss him then when he got like that, there wasn’t any other choice. Plus, Mickey had been putting his tips away, he had some extra cash on hand to get another tattoo. Just kinda worked out.

After Jackson finishes up, Mickey can’t get the smile off of his face. It looks so fucking good. He stares at it for a couple minutes, proud of his boyfriend, and even a little proud of himself, because he managed to make a decision about a tattoo all by his fucking self, and knew it was a _good_ decision, knew he wasn’t going to regret it later. He already wanted another one. Fuck.

They stepped out in front of the shop to smoke. Mickey’s arm (and ass) was dully throbbing. They’d sat there for a couple hours, after all. Still not as bad as getting shot. Jackson reached out for Mickey’s hand as they stood together, brushing their fingers together, loosely slotting them together for a minute. Mickey still liked that shit. It was so casual, and he didn’t tense up about it anymore, didn’t look around to see if anyone was watching. He was there with his boyfriend, and didn’t give a fuck. It was okay. It was safe.

“How’s the bar?” Jackson asked, touching Mickey’s hand again, touching his wrist, gently tugging him closer.

Mickey shrugged, “S’okay. It’s a job. Can’t really complain.”

Jackson nods, pausing a second to pull on his cigarette, “Could probably make more money barbering.”

“Probably,” Mickey quirks an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “You’re really on that shit, huh?”

Jackson gave him a wide smile, shifting on his feet a little, leaning closer to Mickey, “Shoulda seen you cutting Benny’s hair, babe. You looked so fucking… I dunno, you looked happy. That’s your element. And it was kinda hot, seeing you all in the zone.”

Mickey’s normally happy around Jackson, but he doesn’t point that out because it seems a little obvious, to him at least. “Don’t I gotta go to school for that shit, to get a license?”

Jackson nodded, “Yeah.” Mickey made a noise, because the thought of going into a class with a bunch of other people sounded like shit he wanted _no_ part of. Jackson tugged on his hand though, “Will you just think about it? Please?”

Mickey eyed him, “Why’re you on this so hard?”

“I just…” Jackson shrugged. “I dunno, I just got a feeling.”

“Oh, you got a feeling, huh?” Mickey teased him.

Jackson narrowed his eyes at him, nodding, “Yeah asshole, I got a feeling.”

“Asshole?”

“Mmhm,” Jackson grinned, blowing smoke away from Mickey’s face. “Fucking rude.”

Mickey chuckled, taking one last pull on his cigarette before putting it out. He stepped close to Jackson, looking him up and down, crowding his space, “You think I’m rude?”

Jackson threw his cigarette off to the side, keeping his brown eyes locked on Mickey’s; he grinned slow, like a dare, his chin tilting up in a defiant, silent answer.

He loved Jackson’s defiant grin, while his eyes were dark and playful, glinting another dare. Mickey didn’t give a fuck about anyone who might have been in the parking lot in front of the shop, or coming in and out of the shops around them. He took another step, until their chests touched.

“You think I’m mean?” His voice came out all low, and he had a hard time not staring at his boyfriends tongue slipping out to wet his lips. He swallowed, catching Jackson’s eyes again, “Bad boy you gotta tame or something?”

Jackson breathed a soft laugh, and reached up to curl a hand around the back of his neck, his fingers gently digging into his hairline, lightly scratching at his scalp, “Nothing to tame. I’ll take it all.”

Mickey felt his cheeks heat up, and his eyes rolled seemingly on their own accord, playing off the flutter he felt in his belly, “Yeah, bet you _would_ take it all, huh.”

That got his boyfriend to blush, laugh loudly, his eyes scrunching up as he did, “Maybe if you broke me off a piece, I could.”

Mickey wet his lips, glad some of the tension was easing in his gut; it was so hard not to kiss Jackson all the time, or touch him wherever he wanted. “All you gotta do is ask.”

“Oh yeah?” Jackson arched a brow at him, his hand slipping from Mickey’s neck, seeking out his hand again.

Mickey nodded, looking Jackson up and down again, “Yeah.”

“A’ight,” Jackson sucked his teeth at Mickey, head nodding. “You’re still rude.”

“Yeah, but you like it,” Mickey said.

Jackson nodded, looking Mickey in the eyes, still pink in the cheeks and a smile wide as ever. “Yeah… yeah, I like it.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey took Jackson through the back door, not wanting to deal with any of the regulars while walking through the bar. Saturday nights could get a little loud, and the crack of billiard balls filtered up the staircase as Mickey lead the way. 

He took a deep breath, hand on the doorknob, as he shot Jackson a quick look. His boyfriend looked a little nervous, hands shoved into his pockets, his brows drawn together. “Ready?” Mickey asked him.

Jackson arched a brow at him, “Are you?”

He wasn’t sure. His stomach was going fucking bezerk, a mess of nerves. He let go of the doorknob and closed the space between him and Jackson, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He just needed it, needed one last anchor before walking through that door. Jackson relaxed against him instantly, his hands coming up to curl into Mickey’s jacket, kissing him again, drawing it out.

If they weren’t careful, they’d end up making out for a good half hour, so Mickey slowly broke it off, hand coming up to cup the side of Jackson’s face, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it tight. Not now.

“She’s Russian,” Mickey said.

“You told me.”

Mickey chuckled, shaking his head, “I mean… she’s _Russian_. Like _real_ fucking Russian.”

Jackson grinned at him, “You’re stalling.”

He apartment smelled like food; Svetlana said she’d make something nice, looking a little offended when Mickey told her that he wanted to throw some burgers on the grill. It was quiet, smelled like someone had just scrubbed the place down —Mickey sighed at the vacuum marks in the carpet. Why Svetlana was going all out like this, Mickey had no fucking idea.

“Ay,” Mickey called to anyone who would answer, shrugging out of his jacket. 

Jackson followed his lead, and they hung their jackets up on the hooks that Svetlana had him install a couple weeks ago. He looked over at Jackson real quick, trying to give him a reassuring smile. Fuck, he could feel the nerves rolling off of his boyfriend. He reached out quickly to touch the side of his hand, and that got a little grin out of him.

“In here!” Svetlana called back. “Zhenya will be home soon, he is with the twins.”

“Who?” Jackson whispered to Mickey.

He shook his head, “Yev. She calls him that, I dunno.”

Betty fucking Crocker was waiting for them in the kitchen, apron and all. Svetlana held a wooden spoon in one hand, bottle of beer in the other as she arched a brow at the two of them. Tits out, makeup on, chunky heels that made her taller than she needed to be.  There she was. 

Mickey sighed for what seemed like hundredth time since stepping through the front door. There she fucking was, Alpha Russian  _probably shoulda been born a Milkovich in the first place_ Ex-Hooker. Looking like a fucking mafia wife. Looking like she pried the beer bottle cap off with her teeth. Looking like she probably has a switchblade crammed into her cleavage —if there was any room.

The introductions were simple, a little quiet on Jackson’s part. Mickey hadn’t ever seen his boyfriend like this before, he was normally open and personable, but now he was grinning nervously and scratching at the back of his neck.

Svetlana offered him a beer, which he accepted gratefully. Mickey grabbed one forhimself too, knowing he was going to need it. It was a little awkward, the three of them standing around in the middle of the kitchen, sipping at their beers. Mickey had his wife to his left, his boyfriend to his right. Jesus this was fucked up. He forgot how weird this shit was, having a wife and a boyfriend. He almost laughed.

“Mickey says you’re a tattoo artist?” Svetlana asks the question right in the middle of Jackson taking a drink; she motions to the bandage wrapped around Mickey’s arm.

Jackson nods, doing the awkward shuffle of swallowing his mouthful of beer, and wiping at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah, been at it for a while.”

Svetlana nodded, “You make good money?”

“Svet,” Mickey cut in, glaring at her. “Fuck’s wrong with you?”

She shrugged, eyes a little wide and innocent —all fake, “What? It’s a legitimate question.”

“It’s okay, Mick,” Jackson touched Mickey’s elbow as he spoke; he looked apologetic, like _he_ did something wrong. “I do alright for myself.”

Mickey sighed heavy, shifting from foot to foot, his shoulder brushing against Jackson’s. It was quiet again, and Svetlana was looking between the two of them with a little wolfy glint in her eyes; she took a sip from her beer bottle, eyebrow arching, fucking delighting in the awkwardness. 

“What’re you making?” Mickey asked her.

She turned away from the two of them as she spoke, “I’m making stroganoff. It’s Zhenya’s favorite,” she twisted enough to look back at them again, her eyes catching Jackson, brows still arched, “You’re not vegan, are you?”

“Not at all,” Jackson replied.

“Good,” she grinned again, turning back to the stove. Mickey exchanged a sympathetic look with his boyfriend, shaking his head and mouthing the words _I’m sorry_. “I know some of you rainbow boys only like _one_ kind of meat—”

“Alright, enough,” Mickey cut her off, taking Jackson’s wrist in his hand, “We’re gonna go smoke.”

Jackson got that look on his face again, nervous and overly apologetic, “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s fucking not,” Mickey murmured. “Down at the end of the hall is my room, I’ll be there in a sec, okay?”

Jackson just nodded, then left Mickey and Svetlana alone in the kitchen. She didn’t turn around, still stirring and checking on things at the stove; it looked like everything was almost finished. “Untwist your panties, Mykhail.”

“You need to fucking stop,” he ignored her. “I know you like digging your claws in and making people uncomfortable, but you need to leave him the fuck alone, and act right. Thought we were past all this shit.”

Finally, she turned around, hands on her hips; she almost looked bored. “You’re very protective of him.”

“Don’t ruin this for me,” Mickey said, “Please.” If she fucking ruined this for him… if after tonight, Jackson decided that he couldn’t do this anymore… fuck, Mickey didn’t really know what he’d do. “Retract the fucking claws.”

Svetlana held her hands up on either side of her, “Claws aren’t out, Mickey. I’m being me, _you’re_ being overprotective. He’s a grown man with a mouth, he can open it if—”

“You’re my fucking wife,” Mickey cut her off again, shaking his head. “He’s not like… he’s not like Ian, okay? He didn’t walk into this already knowing what the deal with us is. You _do_ know how fucked up this looks to people who don’t know us, right?”

In a rare moment, Svetlana’s face softened a little, like for the first time in ten years, she remembered everything, like the outside world trickled in. Mickey swallowed hard, rubbing at the corner of his mouth. He felt himself soften too, felt his voice lose the edge, “It’s already fucking weird, for him, okay? Just please be nice to him, don’t make it more awkward than it already is. Can you _please_ do that for me?”

“Do you love him?” she asked; it was like someone punched him back in time.

He bit the inside of his cheek, stopping himself from responding. His answer wasn’t for her, she didn’t get to hear that first. He remembered his nightmare, from days before. The prison, Jackson in the prison, _don’t you love me?_ He cleared his throat, clearing the memory away.

Her normal, pointed face resurfaced as she nodded once, smoothing out her apron, “Zhenya will be home soon. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Mickey said, turning to leave the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, looking back at Svetlana, “Ay.” She turned back to look at him. “Thanks,” he said. She gave him another nod, the corner of her mouth tilting up.

He _really_ needed a fucking cigarette before Yev came home —he was more nervous for Jackson to meet his son than he was Svetlana (and now that  _that_ minor shitshow was over, it could only go downhill from there, right?). He didn't know how Yev was going to act, even though the kid had been plenty forewarned that this was happening. It wasn’t like Yev was a bad kid or anything —quite the opposite, actually. But he was still Mickey and Svetlana’s kid, and he knew how to throw his mouth around if he wanted to. Little shit.

His bedroom window was open when he walked into his room, closing the door behind him. Cold air filtered in from inside, and Mickey smirked, grabbing the hoodie that was thrown on top of his dresser, and pulling it on. He walked over to the window, poking his head out to see his boyfriend sitting on the fire escape, unlit cigarette hanging from between his perfect _fuck you_ lips. He was wearing one of Mickey’s sweaters, and he looked damn good in the old, raggedy thing. Wow, he had that thing forever; Mickey was surprised it was even still around.

“Need a light?” Mickey asked, climbing out into the cold, making sure to close the window behind him. 

He cursed under his breath from the chill; the metal floor of the fire escape was cold, but he shimmied close to Jackson in the small space they had to sit, dipping down under the other man’s offered shelter under his arm. His boyfriend was warm, his body heat pressing close against Mickey’s left side.

Mickey lit Jackson’s cigarette, and they passed it back and forth while they sat together in the quiet, both of them looking at the tower shop across the street.

“M’sorry,” Mickey finally said. he rested his hand on Jackson’s thigh, eyes closing when he felt Jackson nuzzle his cold nose into his hair, before he kissed behind his ear. “I know this is fucking weird.”

Jackson took a drag from the cigarette before he passed it back to Mickey, his other hand squeezing his shoulder, “It’s weird, but I told you, it’s okay.”

Mickey looked over at his boyfriend, arching a brow, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man,” Jackson nodded. He grinned wide, not taking his eyes off of Mickey, “She’s not that scary.”

Mickey couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter as he blew out a cloud of smoke away from Jackson, “You say that now, but you haven’t seen her bad side. Trust me, that bitch is fucking sc—”

Jackson leaned over and silenced Mickey with a kiss. Soft, immediately quieting Mickey’s mind —he forgot everything else, it was gone. His shoulders relaxed as he sighed into Jackson, leaning heavily against him, kissing him back without hesitation. It was simple, but made Mickey’s stomach flutter and twist, made him not care about anything else. 

He blindly stubbed the cigarette out somewhere next to him. Jackson cupped the side of his face with his free hand, his thumb brushing along his chin, and it made Mickey smile into the kiss, “I’m supposed to be making you feel better.”

“You always make me feel better,” Jackson murmured back, slowly leaning away. He was looking at Mickey in _that way_ again. His dark eyes all focused, face softening to something open, but still serious. It made Mickey’s mouth go dry, made him want to say things that he was terrified to.

“Mickey,” Jackson began. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, his hand falling from Mickey’s face to one of his hands, curling their fingers together. “Mickey, I—”

A rapid, loud succession of knocking on glass interrupted whatever Jackson was going to say, and Mickey wanted to fucking scream in frustration. He sighed as they untangled, and Mickey turned so he could crack his window open to see his kid looking at him, big blue eyes full of faux innocence, like his fucking mother.

“Dinner's ready, if you're done sucking on cancer, and making out with your boyfriend,” Yev said with a very distinct Milkovich eyebrow raise, the one that says a million things at once, then walked away. That was a first. Mickey had to hand it to him, the kid had balls.

He heard Jackson fail to stifle a laugh behind him. Mickey turned to look at his boyfriend, who had a hand clamped over his mouth, and gave him the same eyebrows that his son had just given him a second before. 

 

* * *

 

Yev hasn't said two fucking words to Jackson (hadn’t _really_ talked to anyone, actually). He sat across from him at the table, would look directly at him while he chewed his food, or took a drink from his glass, but never even said _hi_ or _nice to meet you_ when Mickey did quick introductions. He’s was being a rude little dick. 

He was… well, he was reminding Mickey of those times when he was younger in school, sitting in the principals office; not talking, just _looking_ at the motherfucker with a blank face like w _hat the fuck do you think you’re gonna do to me —nothin’_. And no matter how many times Mickey had given his son _the look_ to act like he had some fucking manners, Yev wouldn’t budge. Stubborn shit; they were gonna have to have a talk later.

And then it was in the middle of Svetlana and Jackson talking about the bar —about how much it had changed in the past ten years (they were actually hitting it off better than expected, once she had dropped her little Mother Russia routine)— when Jackson pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. And Mickey watched his son look over at the man sitting across from him, tilt his head a little to the side, as if he was trying to see what was tattooed onto his skin better, then his big blue eyes, for just a fraction of a second, got wider. Yev opened his mouth like he was going to ask a Jackson something, then quickly grabbed his fork to shovel more stroganoff into his mouth.

Mickey smirked, leaning over a little towards Yev, “Portrait of his grandfather,” he said.

Yev looked at him like he had grown an extra head, “Uh, no. It’s Professor Dumbledore —from Harry Potter.”

“Oh, my bad,” Mickey shrugged, feeling a little bad about lying to his kid, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. “I don’t know about all that.”

Yev frowned at him, “You don’t?”

Mickey shook his head, “No. That’s Jack’s thing. He likes all that shit.”

His son chewed on his bottom lip, glancing over at Jackson, who wasn’t talking to Svetlana anymore, but looking right back at him, a hopeful, lopsided grin on his stubbled face. Yev’s blue eyes narrowed for a second, then lookedback at Mickey.

“He’s got a… fuck, what’s it called,” Mickey sighed, shaking his head, exchanging a knowing look with Jackson, a little grin. “Death Mark? Black Mark?”

“A Dark Mark?” Yev asked, a little gasp to his voice. He looked at Jackson again, eyebrows shot up as far as they could go, “You got a Dark Mark?”

Jackson hesitated for a second, like he couldn’t believe that the kid spoke to him (Mickey was half relieved, half surprised). “Uh, yeah —yeah, I got a Dark Mark,” he said, showing Yev his other arm’s tattoo. “And I just got this done a few weeks ago,” he reached his hand out to show Yev the words tattooed there.

Yev’s mouth formed a little o as he looked at the back of Jackson’s hands, eyes widening, “Looks like in the movie.”

“Mmhm,” Jackson said. “My best friend Benny did it for me, he’s a really good artist. Best I know.”

Mickey and Svetlana exchanged a look with Svetlana, both of them watching the exchange between the two. It was a little tense, the air around them; maybe it was all in Mickey’s head. He kept having these fucked up visions of Yev saying something to try to start shit, because he knew his son had major reservations about this whole thing.

“Better than you?” Yev asked.

Jackson shrugged, “I think so.”

Yev looked over at Mickey, at his bandage, at where his tattoo would be on his chest, before turning his eyes back to Jackson, “The snake you did for my dad is cool. I can’t draw like that.”

Jackson gave a slightly shrug, “I can show you one day, if you want.”

Yev smiled. A real smile, so big that his little eyes crinkled, and it made Jackson smile back at him. Mickey swore he felt his heart stop.

After that, Yev finally opened up. The tension in the air eased. And everything was going so much better than Mickey could have expected. Jackson got Svetlana to laugh more than once, got Yev to ramble on about school. Mickey had reached over a few times, under the table, to rest his hand on his boyfriends knee, or to hold his hand, needing to touch him. 

So many times he wanted to kiss him and tell him… _everything_. He knew now. Mickey felt so incredibly full, and warm, he felt like there was a light in his chest, burning him from the inside out, but it was nice. And welcome. And it was _okay_. 

Because he realized that he was happy, for the first time in a really long time, he was supremely fucking happy. His son was smiling and laughing at this new man in Mickey’s life —a man that Mickey was so gone on, that it terrified him in the best way. Svetlana was being nice, fully retracted her claws, enjoying Jackson’s company. It was good. This was good. He was _happy_.

 

* * *

 

Jackets were already thrown to the floor the minute they walked in. Mickey kissed Jackson, he kissed him hard, shutting the front door of Jackson’s apartment behind them, blindingly locking it. He grabbed either side of his boyfriend’s face, feeling the scratch under his palms as he kissed him, licking at his top lip, gently tugging at it.

Both of them were slick from the rain outside. Started pouring when Mickey pulled into the parking lot, sudden heavy buckets of water gushing from the sky. He hadn’t really planned on staying the night at Jackson’s, but now that it was raining so hard, and Mickey couldn’t think of anything else he wanted other than to strip his boyfriend’s wet clothes off and get into bed as quick as possible… yeah, there was no way he was going back home tonight.

Jackson’s hands were everywhere, running up and down Mickey’s sides, reaching down to grab at his ass, to pull him impossibly closer. It felt so good. Mickey breathed hard against Jackson’s mouth, sucking in the heavy breaths and moans that were given to him in return.

Even though he really didn’t want to, he pulled back for air, sucking it down in big gulps, watching the way Jackson looked at him with heavy eyes, his head tilting back against the wall behind him. They both grinned at each other like a couple of cats, hips still pressed together, leaning forward a few times to brush light kisses to the corners of each others mouths, or cheeks, or necks.

He was shaking, felt dark and light at the same time, static and calm. High and low. His body didn’t know how to process all of these things he was feeling, like someone shoved a new car battery into his gut and let it rip. Mickey ghosted his lips against the curve of Jackson’s stubbled jaw, scraped his teeth against the pulse in his neck. Touched him wherever he could, pushed his knee between Jackson’s legs to get closer, to feel him.

“Good first impression then, huh?” Jackson whispered, breathed a laugh.

Mickey grabbed onto his face again. Fuck, he was still shaking. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn't stop fidgeting. “Wasn’t worried about you,” he told him. “My kid wasn’t that excited about it, and Svet’s a fucking bitch —didn’t wanna scare you away.”

“She’s not so bad,” Jackson breathed against Mickey’s mouth. Mickey slipped his tongue between his lips, quieting him, tasting him as Jackson moaned and slid his tongue against Mickey’s right back, his hands slipping up the back of his shirt. They broke the kiss for air, pushing their foreheads together; Mickey closed his eyes, basked in it for a second. 

“Wasn’t expecting her to be so pretty,” he could hear the grin in Jackson’s voice. 

An offhand, joking comment.

Mickey felt a sick, heavy weight in his gut. More sudden than the rain had been. He felt sick. Felt nauseous. He took a step back from Jackson, untangling himself, his face pinching together in an ugly frown. How could he say something like that? Did he want to fuck her? Did Jackson want to fuck Svetlana? Was he _attracted_ to her?

Felt like water was filling up his lungs; could feel it dragging him down quickly, mercilessly. Drowning. Drowning in _what-if_ ’s and _could’ve-been_ ’s, drowning in three words that he’d wanted to say, but now mocked him. Shit, he really felt like she was going to throw up.

How could he have been so fucking stupid?

He couldn’t do this. Reality was punching him in the gut, and Mickey let his walls shoot up around him. He let his autopilot click on, let the new car battery fall to the floor. He took another step back when Jackson reached out to him, trying to draw him back in.

“Whoa…” he looked confused. “Mick, what are you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey bit out at him, reaching down for his jacket. Jackson touched his shoulder, and Mickey’s body jerked back on it’s own accord. “—the fuck off me,” his mouth spat.

Jackson looked completely lost, “What the fuck is with you?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey’s mouth kept opening, kept talking. He needed to get away from him, couldn’t do this. He couldn’t fucking do this. “You wanna fuck her, fucking have her, I don’t give a shit. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

“What?” Jackson’s question was loud, full of breath and confusion.

He was already out of the door, already walking down the hall, trying to put as much space between him and Jackson as possible. He heard his name behind him, over and over. Jackson’s voice was like at the end of a tunnel. His ears tuned him out as his feet moved him. He felt pressure curl around his shoulder from behind, and he moved like he was burned, jerking out of the grip. 

His car keys were in his hand, and he didn’t know how he got outside, but there he was in the rain, taking one last look at Jackson —didn’t even put his jacket on. Just standing there getting soaked. He’d get sick.

“Is this because I said she was pretty?” Jackson raised his arms to either side of him, eyes squinting to see him through the rain. “Huh? I wasn’t… thinking —didn’t think it would be a big fucking deal! I don’t understand what’s happening right now!”

He wanted to keep walking to his car, but his feet wouldn’t move, planted like hundred year old trees. His hair was matted down from the rain, water trickling down under the collar of his jacket, under his shirt. He’d probably get sick too. 

Jackson looked so small all of a sudden. His shirt sticking to his body, arms hanging at his sides, but he kept a distance. “You can’t just say that you can’t do this and walk away from me!” Jackson said. “You can’t walk away like that!”

He could do whatever the fuck he wanted, his body reminded him. He was Mickey Milkovich, and he did whatever he _fucking_ wanted. “I can’t do this!” He yelled over the rain, hand gesturing between the two of them. His throat was tight, burning. Eyes were stinging. He was crying. Fuck.

“All of a sudden you can’t do this?” Jackson asked, taking a step forward, barely. “Because I said she was pretty? What the fuck, Mickey? I didn’t mean it like that, what the _fuck_?”

“You can’t say that about her! Okay? Not about her —you don’t… you don’t fucking _know_ ,” he stopped short, shaking his head. He didn’t want him to know.

Jackson, clearly frustrated, ran his hands over his wet hair, “Then tell me! What is it?”

He couldn’t. He shook his head, just repeating himself, “You don’t fucking know… you don’t know.”

“Mickey… it’s okay, it’s me, just tell me —something, _anything_ , just don’t walk away like this, _please_.”

Mickey pushed down the _before_ … the couch, the blood, the gun slamming into his temple. Shit he hadn’t thought of or honestly cared that much about in ten years. He pushed it down to make room for the _now_ , the problem that had been silently, carefully eating away at him.

“It’s always in the back of my fucking mind, okay. It’s always there. I can’t be with someone, worried that they’re gonna wake up one morning wanting shit that I can’t give them! Wanting the waitress at the diner —or _her_. Or some other chick on the fucking street that looks good!” His voice broke a little. It was hard to tell Jackson, but the same body that made him walk away made him open his mouth and spill his guts.

“I told you it’s not like that, _I’m_ not like that,” Jackson’s voice was both hard but worried at the same time. “I told you when I’m with someone, I’m with _them_ , only them. Only you —I only want _you_! For fuck’s sake, I’m not gonna cheat on you, Mickey, I don’t want anyone else! I don’t understand… what’s… please don’t do this.”

Mickey shook his head, gripping his car keys in his hand hard, feeling the metal edges dig into his palm, “You can’t know that.”

“I _do_ know that!” Jackson wiped at his rain-wet face, his eyes. He walked up on him, blinking rain from his eyes, finger prodding Mickey hard in the chest. His _fuck you_ face was hard as he looked Mickey in the eyes, getting in his face, “I _do_ fucking know that, so fuck you! And you know what, fuck you for thinking I’m like that!” 

“Fuck me, huh? That right?” Mickey glared at Jackson, hating that he felt hot anger towards the other man, hating that they were yelling like this. He wanted to stop, but his body wouldn’t let him yet.

Jackson wasn’t scared of Mickey. He didn’t back down, setting his defiant jaw, “Yeah. If that’s what you really think of me, then fuck you. You think _I’m_ not worried about shit? Ian’s still in your life, Mickey!”

Mickey’s face twisted in angry confusion, “What’re you talking about—”

Jackson shook his head, “You don’t think I’m scared to fucking death that you’re gonna wake up one day and want to get back together with Ian?”

He didn’t know what to say; his mouth shut tight, wouldn’t let him talk. It wouldn’t happen though, Jackson had to know that, he had to know that Mickey had moved on. It was ten fucking years ago, a _decade_. Mickey didn’t love Ian like that anymore. He didn’t want that anymore. 

Mickey still couldn’t move, was still rooted to the spot, soaked down to the fucking bone now, the rain wasn’t letting up. It was loud as it poured down on them. Jackson shivered, running his hands over his hair again, over his face before his shoulders fell, arms falling to his sides in defeat.

“Mickey…” he sighed hard, shrugging. “I’m scared, but I love you _more_ than I’m scared, okay? I’m scared outta my fucking mind that you’ll wanna try again with Ian. But… fuck, I just…”

Blank. 

“What’d you say?”

Jackson shook his head, frowning like Mickey had missed the most obvious thing in the word. “I love you,” he said slowly. “I’m… Jesus _Christ_ , Mickey, I’m _in love_ with you! Okay? That’s how you know I’m not going anywhere —that’s how you know that I’m not gonna wake up one day and want someone else. I would never do something to hurt you like that, I don’t want to _ever_ hurt you, because I fucking love you.”

He replayed the words over and over in his head. Every single one of them. Had he ever… had he _ever_ heard that? Had someone ever… loved him? Ian said he had, but did he ever tell him? Didn’t really matter. Jackson loved him? Jackson loved him.

He loved him.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Jackson said. “I’m not telling you to make you stay —I _want_ you to stay, but that’s not why… I just…” he trailed off, wiping at his eyes again. “I dunno, I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but not like this—”

Maybe Mickey got caught up, maybe Jackson overwhelmed him to the point where he didn’t think about anything else. Maybe it was okay, though. Mickey cut Jackson off with a kiss, grabbing onto the font of his soaked shirt, lips slipping against his, kissing him hard. Jackson loved him, and Mickey believed him. He could taste it, could feel it all over. That desperate fullness came back, the burning light. He kissed him over and over again, pressing into him, right in the middle of the parking lot, in the rain.

Jackson’s normally warm body was cold; lips were freezing and wet. Kissing in the rain wasn’t as romantic as it is in the movies, but it was still pretty damn good.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson shivered through a whisper while he came up for air. He was shaking hard, like his body was finally catching up with the fact that it was freezing, and raining, and Jackson was outside without a jacket. “Shouldn’t’ve said that about Svetlana. I didn’t know that… I didn’t mean it like that.”

Mickey just nodded, his body allowing him to _think_ again, allowing for him to _see_ what was in front of his face, to _remember_. He’d said it offhandedly, jokingly, back in the apartment. Like a tease, nothing more. Because he didn’t know —because Mickey hadn’t told him anything. And that wasn’t his fault. Mickey’s body reacted before his mind could, and he’d walked away before he could process.

 

* * *

 

They traded in the freezing rain for a hot shower. Wet clothes in a gross sopping pile in the corner of Jackson’s bathroom —had to go in the wash, but they’d worry about it later. Jackson kept looking at Mickey, like he couldn’t stop even for a second, like he wasn’t really sure if this was happening. So Mickey kissed him under the hot water, to show him that it was.

Then, after the shower, after they threw their clothes in the wash, and bundled up in Jackson’s sweatpants and hoodies to keep warm, they climbed into bed together, under blankets, lights off, cutting out the rest of the world. Mickey was so warm with Jackson, tangled up, facing each other, fingers laced together between them. The streetlights outside gave just enough light for them to see each other.

“There’s a lot of shit you don’t know,” Mickey kept his voice quiet, almost afraid to disrupt the dark. Admitting fears wasn’t easy, and Mickey took a deep breath before he continued, “I’m scared to tell you.”

“Why?” Jackson asked him.

Mickey pressed his fingers into his eyes, feeling well up and sting. Jackson ran a hand up and down Mickey’s side, telling him it was okay. Then Mickey took a deep breath and looked at his boyfriend. He shrugged, not knowing how else to say it, not able to hold it back anymore, “I keep telling you about all this bad shit about me. Keep fucking adding to it, all these reasons why you should walk away.”

Jackson shook his head, “I’m not going anywhere… good shit, bad shit, I’m right _here_ Mickey. But I think it’s pretty obvious now that there’s stuff we gotta talk about, stuff that’s bothering us, you know?”

Mickey sighed and nodded, agreeing, “Yeah.”

Silence hung in the air for a little while. Mickey listened to Jackson breathe, felt his warm breath bleed across his face. His eyes were still stinging a little, and he was having a hard time keeping it together. It was like his body was throwing all of these things at him at the same time, and all Mickey wanted to do was erase the last half hour from his life, wanted to start the night over. 

Words crowded the tip of his tongue, and the thought of sorting through those words was giving him a headache. There was still so much to tell Jackson, and he didn’t know where to start, didn’t know how to say what he needed to say. 

“She wasn’t some girl I fucked and accidentally knocked up,” Mickey finally said. “My dad… he caught me with Ian. Svet was the hooker he called for. Made me fuck her; made Ian watch — had a gun pointed at him… she got pregnant. He made me marry her.”

His whole body was tense, so fucking tight and coiled up inside. Then Jackson didn’t hesitate, immediately scooting closer, hand holding the side of Mickey’s face then sliding to cup the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together, taking a deep breath, “Mickey, I’m so sorry. Fuck, babe, I’m so… I’m so sorry.”

Mickey didn’t realize he was crying until Jackson leaned his head back and carefully wiped at his face, wiping the tears away. He wasn’t expecting the tears, and wasn’t sure if they were because of what happened all those years ago, or because finally telling Jackson was just _a lot_.

He sniffed, wrapping his arm around Jackson’s middle, holding on tight, listening to his boyfriend breathe and speak softy to him, telling him he was sorry that happened to him. His voice was thick like he was holding back his own tears, and it touched Mickey in a way he never felt before. He usually hated the _oh I’m so sorry_ when people heard sob stories. But it was different with Jackson. And he didn’t know how to describe exactly what was different, but it was.

“Was a long time ago,” Mickey said, not knowing if it was directed more to himself or Jackson. “It was fucked up, but it’s over, and Yev’s a good kid.”

“I wish I could say something,” Jackson whispered. “I don’t know what to say.”

A small, hopeful smile spread across Mickey’s lips as he let Jackson wipe as his face some more and kiss his forehead, “You still love me?”

“Of course I do,” Jackson murmured.

“Good,” Mickey breathed, catching Jackson’s dark eyes. He took a deep breath, forcing himself through the butterflies in his belly, forcing himself through the hesitation. “Because I love you too.”

Jackson smiled. Wide, dimpled, all teeth, eyes crinkling like Mickey loved. it made him smile too, couldn’t even help it. “Yeah?” he asked.

Mickey nodded, breathing a soft laugh when Jackson pressed a kiss to his lips, “Yeah,” he whispered between kisses, “Yeah, I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws romantic cliches at Mickey* TAKE THEM!
> 
> I really don't know how this ended up, I had so many expectations and I might have gotten in my head about them. I might have cut it off too soon??? Ughhh idk, I'd really appreciate honest feedback on this chapter in particular.
> 
>  
> 
> [Mickey's new tattoo](http://thatattoozone.tumblr.com/post/131233891587/family-ink-tattoo-iliya-dementiev-nizhny)


	14. No Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of an add-on to the previous chapter.  
> There's a lot of talking & it's just Mickey and Jackson. Enjoy! <3

They didn’t sleep. And it wasn't because they were fucking all night, either.

Telling Jackson about everything was hard. He always knew that when the time came, it would be hard, but at the same time, he wasn’t expecting it to take so much out of him. They had talked for _hours_ —longer than Mickey could ever remember talking to someone. Jackson was patient and quiet while Mickey spoke, held his hand, ran his fingers up and down his arm as they laid together in Jackson’s bed.

Mickey told him about his father. Told him the truth, about the guns, the drugs, the violence. The fear. “It wasn’t _all_ fucking bad,” Mickey felt like he needed to add. “There were times where my old man was fucking funny, you know? Wasn’t a lot of good times, but it wasn’t all bad. Mostly, but… I dunno. It was just… that’s how it was. He took me and my brothers to a game once. Sat in the nosebleeds, got us all fucking wasted on cheap ass beer. I was twelve, but it was… I dunno…”

“No, I got you,” Jackson nodded. He always did, and Mickey didn’t understand how Jackson just _knew_ what he meant most of the time, but he did. It felt good. Made him feel warm and relaxed.

“He made my life hell,” Mickey whispered. “Always felt like I was fucking suffocating.”

Jackson’s hand was sliding to the side of his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as he scooted closer. He didn’t say anything, and Mickey appreciated it. There wasn’t much to say that his boyfriend hadn’t already said — _I’m sorry; you’re safe now; holy shit,_ etc. 

Mickey sniffed, brows twitching upward as he finally looked into his boyfriend’s dark eyes. Jackson was solely focused on him, relaxed face but concern in his eyes. And love. Jackson loved him. Good shit, bad shit.

“I just don’t wanna go back to that life,” Mickey added, more to himself. “It’s not worth it. Didn’t wanna tell you about that shit because, fuck, I know how it looks. Just feel like I got miles and miles of bad shit behind me, you know?”

“That’s behind you though,” Jackson said, voice soft. “That shit doesn’t spell out who you are.”

“Yeah, but I did it,” Mickey sighed. 

There was a long pause, where Jackson was threading his fingers through Mickey’s hair and looking at him, before he let out a long, slow sigh and said, “The night I got picked up for stealing that car… I did something that no one knows about. Never told anyone. Hate that I even tried.”

Mickey frowned, his interest piqued from Jackson’s words, “What do you mean?”

Jackson sighed again, chewing on his bottom lip. “You know I told you I was a miserable fucking bastard after Katie… thought I was hard, you know? Just wanted everyone to feel as shitty as I did. Hated everything.”

He wasn’t looking at Mickey anymore, not directly. His dark eyes were trained on Mickey’s shoulder as he spoke, like he was ashamed. Mickey reached up and took Jackson’s hand off of the side of his face so he could hold it, threading their fingers together, letting him know it was okay. There wasn’t anything that Jackson could tell Mickey that would make him look at him differently. After everything that Mickey had told Jackson —after telling him about the shit he used to do for Terry (and about his time lockedup)… good shit, bad shit, Mickey was here.

“I got this gun,” Jackson continued. “Never even touched one before… but I was mad —sick of living in this shithole, sick of everyone, all fucked up over Katie. I just felt so hyped up all the time, you know? Ready to fight… whatever, I was just mad.”

Mickey felt his heart sink, watching Jackson’s face get all tense and tortured, watching his shame spread across his face. Jackson _really_ hated that he used to be like that, Mickey realized. He knew that feeling. Hating yourself.

“I got this gun, and I tucked it in my pants, thinking I’m some kind of badass. Fucking dumb as shit, walking around like that, like I was something to be scared of,” Jackson let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “And I’m walking by this park, and I see the back of this lady, and she’s got this light hair —all wavy and nice. Reminded me of Katie…” he trilled off, shaking his head again.

Mickey untangled his fingers from Jackson’s, taking his turn to cup the side of his boyfriend’s face, directing him to look up, so he could see his eyes. Glassy and red; Jackson tried to look away, but Mickey made himself be gentle as he could to make him stay. “Ay,” he said. “S’okay.”

“M’sorry,” he mumbled. “Probably don’t want me to talk about—”

“Jack,” Mickey cut him off, shaking his head. “Promise you, it’s okay.”

“I was just so mad… all the fucking time,” Jackson said after a moment, after nodding and taking a deep breath. “She knew better, you know? She fucking knew better than to get into a car with someone who’d… she wasn’t stupid like that. And I was mad. And I had a gun, thought I was something, you know? I wasn’t shit.”

Mickey stayed quiet, remembering how it used to feel, holding a piece. He was raised to revel in that power, raised to feel like a fucking god when he pointed it, when he pulled the trigger.

“I just ran up behind her and pulled my gun out,” Jackson explained. “And she was so fucking scared, and I was scared too but I didn’t care, you know? I was pointing the gun at her, was going to tell her to give me her purse, her jewelry, whatever she had. But then she turned around… and she was carrying a fucking baby.”

“Shit,” Mickey whispered, wiping under Jackson’s eyes, wiping the tears away. 

“We just stood there. Felt like forever. She’s fucking crying, begging me not to hurt her, not to hurt her baby. And it took me forever to realize that I was still pointing the gun at her —at her _baby_. Then it’s like I woke up or something, and she’s holding out her purse with her other hand… baby’s crying… she’s still crying,” Jackson took another deep breath, leaning into Mickey’s touch. “I didn’t feel like a badass anymore, I just felt like a piece of shit. Tryna rob a lady holding a fucking baby, pointing a fucking gun at them… so I just walked away, she ran off; I broke into the first car I passed after tossing the gun. Got caught.”

Mickey didn’t know what to say. He knew that there was a huge part of him that was desensitized to this stuff, but he also knew his boyfriend. He couldn't imagine Jackson doing that. It was so outside of the realm of what he knew about the other man, so far outside of what he’d seen, what he’d felt from Jackson. He must have been hurting really fucking bad to get to that point. Must have been at the end of his line. 

He held onto Jackson tight, “Never told anyone?”

Jackson shook his head, “Never wanted to. I guess she never went to the cops, so… nothing ever happened.”

“But you wanted to tell me,” Mickey slid his hand into the back of Jackson’s hair, sinking his fingers into it, wanting to make him feel better.

“Yeah,” Jackson nodded. 

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, hating seeing his boyfriend like this, “You’re not a piece of shit,” he told him. “Trust me, I know people who are pieces of shit… not you though, you’re not.” Probably didn’t need to, but it felt right. 

“I was for a while,” Jackson replied, shaking his head like he was disappointed, or embarrassed —or both.

“You were hurting,” Mickey said.

“Yeah. Burned a bunch of bridges… people tried to fucking help me and I just… fucking hate that I was like that, even to my mom, I was such a fucking _dick_.”

“People fuck up,” Mickey said, soft —gentle. "It's okay though, now. You're not that guy anymore. You're probably the best fucking person I know. Good shit, bad shit, right?"

Jackson gave Mickey a lopsided grin,  “I love you.”

It was so new, and felt so good. Mickey didn’t want to just beam a smile after Jackson told him his secret, but he felt it tug at the corner of his mouth. Fuck, it just felt so fucking good when Jackson said that.  Mickey pressed a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s mouth, “I love you too.”

Jackson breathed a watery laugh, sniffing and cuddling closer to Mickey, “We’re so gross. So fucking sappy, _jesus_.”

He couldn’t help it, Mickey let himself laugh and smile that time. He nodded, feeling some tension leave his body, “Fuck off Romeo, you love it.”

Jackson got a little pink in his cheeks as he rolled his eyes, “Whatever.”

 

* * *

 

It was past three in the morning now, and somehow they had moved from Jackson’s bed, to the couch. Swapping some war-stories; just being together and talking. Mickey was surprised that he didn’t even think of cutting the conversation off; it just felt _normal_ , felt right.

Jackson blew out a long cloud of smoke as he passed the joint back to Mickey, “And he’d just walk out, not tell me where he was going —nothing. Just gone for hours.”

“Why were you even together?” Mickey asked. “Fucking fighting all the time, and shit.”

Jackson shrugged, “Eh… tried to make it work, I guess.”

Mickey felt a little pull in his gut —a little guilt from walking away last night. 

He chewed on the corner of his lip before taking a hit from the joint and setting it aside. While he exhaled his smoke, he reached for Jackson, pulling him to his side of the couch, pulling him on top of him. Jackson grinned and straddled his hips, sitting in his lap.

“I won’t do that again,” Mickey promised. He curled his hands around his boyfriends hips as Jackson wrapped his arms around his neck and dropped a kiss to his lips. “Won’t walk away like that.”

“It just pisses me off,” Jackson murmured, still dropping kisses over Mickey’s face. Light, brushing kisses that sent little shivers up Mickey’s back. “Fucking hate it.”

“You know that it’s over for good, with me and Ian, right?” Mickey, knowing his eyes were going a little wide, knowing his voice was a little softer than he’d wanted, looked up at Jackson. He was nervous to talk about Ian with Jackson, scared that his boyfriend would always be second-guessing that. “You don’t have shit to worry about with him —that’s done.”

Jackson sighed, but nodded his head, “I know.” He paused, lips pursing like he was trying to pick out words. “He hurt you really bad, huh?”

The question was both expected and surprising. Mickey sighed, shoulders shrugging a little, “It was really fucking messy back then.”

Another pause; Jackson pressing his forehead to Mickey’s, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders, “I don’t wanna bring up bad shit you don’t wanna talk about… I just wish I knew, you know? Not to try to save you or some shit, just… I dunno.”

Mickey took a deep breath, understanding what Jackson was getting at. They had already talked a lot about shit, but not about Ian. And there were things that Mickey _wouldn’t_ talk about when it came to Ian, just because some of this shit about his ex wasn’t his damn business to spread around. Even if Mickey trusted Jackson, still was kind of a dick move.

“He uh… he cheated on me,” Mickey decided on sharing. Fuck, it was so long ago, but talking about it, saying it out loud was like acid in his mouth. “He was going through some shit, but he cheated on me.”  Jackson didn’t say anything, but he leaned back and sighed that sigh when you want to say a bunch of shit, but you hold it back. Mickey looked up into his boyfriend’s dark eyes and lifted a brow at him. “It was… complicated,” he said.

Jackson shook his head, “You two were a couple?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded.

“Open realtionship?”

Mickey pulled a face, “No.”

“You cheat on him?”

“No,” Mickey answered.

“Not really that complicated,” Jackson said. 

Mickey opened his mouth, but closed it back up, because… well, Jackson kind of had a point, didn’t he? “It was a long time ago… we were kids.”

Jackson shifted on Mickey’s lap, before he said, “Kinda still fucking with you though.”

Couldn’t deny that; after accusing Jackson of wanting to fuck Svetlana, and everything else he said, his boyfriend hit the nail right on the head, huh? Mickey felt this pull in his gut; he nodded, hands curling around the back of Jackson’s knees, “Guess so.”

The acid was back in his mouth again; Mickey pressed his lips together, eyes fixing on Jackson’s shoulder. It was a long time ago, and Mickey had so much time to think about things, to go through most of the stages of grief, or anger, _whatever_ he felt over the relationship. 

There was that aftertaste though. The things that used to hurt so bad it felt like he was dying, now just stung him in the side a little bit. A thorn digging in, reminding him that it was still there, refusing to let him go just yet. One day, yes. But now? In this moment? That thorn wasn’t completely done with Mickey yet. 

“The last time he came to visit me when I got locked up… he told me that Svetlana had to pay him to come,” Mickey admitted. It was embarrassing. “I think that fucked with my head the longest. After everything we went through, Svet had to fucking bribe him to see me.”

He felt Jackson tense up, felt those dark eyes hot on him before he even looked Jackson in the face, “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

He didn’t want this bad taste anymore, wanted to wrap this up. “Trust me, it’d be a lot easier if he were just… not around like he is,” Mickey admitted, his high softening the edges for him. “But he’s basically Yev’s other dad, you know? He helped Svet raise him —loved that kid long before I ever did.”

Jackson sighed heavy, like he was trying to ease his own frustration from what Mickey told him about Ian, before he responded, “You had a hard time with him?”

“Could barely look at him at first,” Mickey murmured.

Jackson hugged onto Mickey, pressing his face into the crook of his neck; Mickey hugged him back tightly. They were all sweatpants and hoodies, a pile of comfy in the middle of the couch. Jackson felt so good, even with the scratch of his stubble as he spoke.

“Can’t imagine going through what you’ve been through.”

Mickey wondered if it would be too cheesy to tell Jackson that all that bullshit that he ever went through lead him right here on this couch. Probably was too cheesy. But it was true. He leaned his head back shoe could look at his boyfriend, giving him a little grin, “I’m okay now.”

Jackson grinned, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. Of course he was okay; he had Jackson.

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s body is calm; quiet. He’s set up on the counter —one side of the kitchen. Jackson’s over on the other side. He leans his head back on the cabinets behind him, looking over at his boyfriend. Jackson’s eyes are heavy, he’s sleepy but doesn’t want to go to bed. Mickey doesn’t want to go to bed either. 

But he is high as _fuck_.

“I just don't get how you can go back and forth between muff, and dick,” Mickey blurted out.

Jackson snorted a laugh, his eyes rolling, “Oh my god.”

“Just saying,” Mickey shrugged; his filter was failing miserably. “I dunno, I know I get fucking weird about you and girls… the whole bi thing.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, man,” Jackson shrugged. “I don’t really know how to explain it beyond… I like girls, _and_ I like guys.”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, watching how Jackson clumsily ran a hand over his curly hair. He was so fucking hot; and Mickey got to kiss him, got to touch him, fuck him, got to be loved by him. He felt really fucking lucky. 

“I’m gonna try harder,” Mickey told him. “Gonna try to not be a dick about it, you know? Just hard to understand, because when I was fucking those girls, I didn’t _want_ it, you know? I didn't even fucking like it. But you like it —but you also like cock. So, I dunno what the fuck—”

“Mick,” Jackson laughed, slipping off the counter. He walked over to where Mickey was and let his hands fall on top of Mickey’s knees, looking up at him. “You’re rambling.”

Mickey felt his face grow warm, but his mouth was still going, “Which do you like more?”

Jackson pulled a confused face, “What?”

“Which do you like more —girls or guys?”

“Mickey,” Jackson sighed, long and drawn out. He shook his head, a good-natured grin on his face, like he was trying to be really patient. “I like _you_ more.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, “That’s a shit answer.”

Jackson hummed, pressing closer to Mickey, wrapping his arms around his hips, pulling him closer to the edge of the counter. He rested his chin on Mickey’s chest, looking up at him. He felt really good —always felt really good; Mickey sank his fingers into Jackson’s curls, dull fingernails scratching at his scalp, making his eyes flutter closed for a second.

“What do you like more —a big syrupy stack of banana pancakes, or Seagal?” Jackson murmured.

Mickey frowned, “I don’t want to put my dick in either—”

“I didn’t ask you that!” Jackson laughed, his eyes crinkling and body shaking against Mickey’s. “Which do you like more —Seagal, or banana pancakes with a disgusting amount of syrup?”

The frown never left his face, he could feel his frown lines cutting deep into his forehead, his mouth turning down. Choose between Seagal and banana pancakes? “They’re completely fucking different,” Mickey said.

“Exactly,” Jackson stood up straight so he could look at Mickey properly, shrugging his shoulders. “You like Seagal because he’s the man, he’s fucking badass, and you _for some reason_ are obsessed with his movies, and ponytail. And you like banana pancakes because they’re awesome.”

He could really go for some pancakes right about now, actually. Mickey reached for Jackson’s hands, holding them, needing some contact; just because.

“You like them for different reasons… they’re like your favorite things. For different reasons. Get it?” Jackson asked.

Mickey nodded, “I think so.” He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, trying his damnedest to make his filter work, but more words threatened to spill, more questions that Jackson probably didn't want to answer.

“Go ahead,” Jackson sighed.

He chewed on his bottom lip for a second, “What kind of girls do you like?”

Jackson tilted his head to the side, “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Mickey shrugged, “I’m just fucking asking, never mind.”

Jackson paused, curling his hand in the front of Mickey’s shirt, tugging him forward so he had to lean forward and, their noses bumping each other. “I don’t have a type, like that,” Jackson told him. “There’s no checklist, or guidelines, or _whatever_. I like what I like —want what I want… I love who I love —and all of that is _you_. Okay? Everyone else, they can fuck off, I don’t want them. I want _you_.”

Mickey nodded, a little shiver trailing up his spine from his boyfriend’s low voice. “Okay.”

“Alright,” Jackson pulled Mickey forward a little more until their mouths were pressing together. Mickey sighed into the kiss, letting Jackson take the lead, letting him lick into his mouth and suck gently on his bottom lip. And then just as quickly as it happened, Jackson let him go. “Any more questions?”

Fuck, it was happening. Mickey’s brain was all fucked up from weed and that damn kiss. Yeah, it was coming out before he could even stuff it back down. “Have you ever… uh, you know…”

“Threesome?” his boyfriend supplied, eyebrows arching.

Mickey nodded, face heating up again because he knew that it was one of those questions that he probably wasn’t supposed to ask. Definitely, _definitely_ wasn’t supposed to ask. But like, he was curious, so fuck it.

“No,” Jackson answered. “I haven’t. Not really into that.”

“Okay,” Mickey nodded, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware that he was holding.

Jackson rolled his eyes, but his mouth pulled a small grin that disappeared quickly. He carefully asked, “Are you gonna be able to, you know, deal with this shit? Me being bi?”

Mickey slid off the counter, standing chest to chest with his boyfriend. Everything in him ached in that one moment, because the hesitation in Jackson’s voice, that worry, coated his words. Mickey leaned forward, brushing his lips against Jackson’s, kissing him softly. Then gently pulled at his bottom lip before he leaned back again to look at him.

“I can handle it,” Mickey told him. “I know I freaked the fuck out before, but it was just because it was _her_ , you know… but I promise, I’ll do better.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to deal with it,” Jackson murmured. “If you can’t trust me—”

Mickey shook his head, slipping his hands under the bottom of Jackson’s sweatshirt so he could touch his hips, dipping his fingers just barely under the edge of his sweatpants. “I trust you. What we have… I don’t wanna lose this,” he said. “My shit with the way you are, that’s on me, that’s _my_ bullshit I gotta work through. And I’m gonna, okay?” 

He’d fight for Jackson. He’d fight fucking tooth and nail. And if it meant fighting _himself_ , fighting his own hangups and all that shit, then so be it. On one hand, he was kind of used to it —Mickey was a constant work in progress, he knew this.

Jackson got all pink in his cheeks, head dipping down a little as he nodded, “Okay. And I’ll be more aware of shit I say. I’ll think first.”

“I don’t want you to have to start changing shit about yourself for me,” Mickey shook his head. “Don’t want you walking on eggshells…”

Jackson snorted a kind of ugly laugh, his dark eyes rolling, “I’m not gonna walk on eggshells, Mick, it’s not like that. This is how it works. _You_ work on some shit; _I_ work on some shit.”

God, he _really_ loved him.

Mickey tilted his chin up a little, gesturing for Jackson to lean forward, “C’mere.”

He got that wide smile that Mickey loved, then pressed a hard kiss to Mickey’s mouth. Jackson’s hands came up to hold the sides of Mickey’s face; Mickey loved that. He didn’t know what it was about it that just did it for him, but when Jackson kissed him like this, patiently licking into his mouth and working his lips so fucking nice like this —all the while grabbing his face? Fuck. That was it.

Mickey broke the kiss off for a second, "I just... like do you  _go down_ on girls?"

" _Mickey_ ," Jackson huffed, giving him a flat look before he grabbed the back of his head, pulling him into another kiss. "Shut the fuck up."

 

* * *

 

It was a blessing that it was Sunday, and neither one of them had to work. Mickey woke up on the couch, all curled up with Jackson. Well, laying on top of Jackson, head pillowed on his chest, his boyfriends legs framing him in where he laid. It was comfortable. But he also woke up to what sounded like a damn lawnmower in his ear, humming away, and a light _vibrating_ weight on his back. Fucking gargoyle.

He frowns, turning his head so he can look up at Jackson, but it met with a book instead. Mickey grunts, blinking sleep from his eyes, “How’re you reading right now?”

The book flips up, and Mickey’s met with a softly grinning Jackson, hair a fucking mess, and his thick-framed glasses perched on his nose, “Morning, sunshine.”

Mickey grunts again, tucking his arms under Jackson’s back, holding onto him as he presses his cheek to his chest, eyes closing. “Fucking cat is loud.”

“She likes you,” Jackson murmured. 

Mickey hummed when he felt fingers trailing through his hair, kind of absentmindedly, but it was still nice. Judging by the silence that fell over again, he thought it was safe to assume that Jackson went back to reading his book. Nagini’s purring trailed off, getting softer as she snuggled into Mickey’s back. And before Mickey knew it, he was asleep again.

 

* * *

 

Mickey pushed his hands under Jackson’s hoodie, seeking out his warm skin, spreading his fingers out as he pushed the piece of clothing up, exposing his boyfriend’s abdomen. Sparse dark hair lead a trail down from his belly button into his sweatpants; Mickey’s mouth dropped open as he took it all in. Just staring at Jackson’s body —the small outline of a sun on his lower torso, the ruby red roses on his hip, leading down to his thigh. He loved Jackson’s body.

He looked up at Jackson, from where he laid on the bed; Jackson was looking back at him, silent and intense. “You’re so fucking sexy,” Mickey murmured. 

Jackson grinned, reaching down to tug his sweatshirt off over his head, throwing it behind him, so Mickey could see all of him from the hips up. He took Mickey’s hands in his own, placing them on his body, silently asking for more touch. Mickey was more than willing to give him that.

As Jackson sat on top of him like that, hips subtly rocking back and forth, Mickey ran his hands up and down his sides, up to his chest, down to his clothed thighs, touching everywhere he could. He traced over the little sun, over the petals of the roses, fingers dipping under his waistband —just barely, just enough to get Jackson to let out a shaky sigh.

He could look at his boyfriend all day, could touch him, and make love to him all fucking day. Make love. He knows for a fact that he’s never called it that before.

“Mickey,” Jackson whispered.

Mickey sat up, wrapping an arm around Jackson’s waist, moving them, turning them until Jackson was under him, head resting on the plush pillow. He stared down at him for a minute. At his hair, his eyes, his _fuck you_ mouth, his collarbones —everything. Jackson’s looking back at him like Mickey has all the fucking answers, and he’s willing to wait to hear every single one. 

Jackson brought his hands up, holding Mickey’s face. His touch was warm; Mickey leaned into it, not breaking eye contact for even a second. He gave a half grin when Jackson’s legs moved up, framing his hips, pulling him down a little.

“Like a glove,” Jackson said softly.

Mickey breathed a laugh, meeting his boyfriend’s lips in a soft kiss. Simple. Then again. And again. Then Jackson wrapped his arms around Mickey’s neck, pulling him down more. Flush against each other. Warm, perfect fit. _Like a glove_. Mickey moaned against his boyfriend’s mouth, kissing him harder, tasting his lips, licking into his mouth.

He didn’t want this to ever stop, didn’t want to go back to the real world. Jackson felt so fucking good, felt so right. Mickey rocked his hips as Jackson arched his back, moving with each other, feeling each other.

It might have been minutes; might have been hours. Mickey didn’t know. But by the time Jackson had slipped his hands under Mickey’s hoodie and tugged it up, over his head, Mickey’s mouth was tender, sore from his boyfriend’s stubble. And he was aching, down to his bones, aching and twisting —flustered to the point where he felt like his body was going to break apart.

They were desperate, grabbing at each other, pulling at clothes. Mickey sucked a mark on Jackson’s collarbone, practically fucking growling when he felt a hand fist into his hair, pulling tightly; goosebumps all down his back. He bit at Jackson’s skin, then marked him again, making him moan —heavy and drawn out.

“Fuck,” Jackson breathed, back arching. 

Mickey moved down, kept moving down. He couldn’t taste Jackson’s skin enough, couldn’t kiss him all over enough, couldn’t feel him enough. Jackson’s fingers threaded through Mickey’s hair as he whispered little words here and there, his voice so thick and full of breath. _Yes_ , and _there_ , and _please_.

He bit gently at Jackson’s hip, his fingers curling around the band of Jackson’s boxers, tugging at them until he saw those roses. Mickey’s mouth watered, lips and tongue tracing over the bloomed flowers inked into his boyfriend’s skin.

“Oh my god,” Jackson gasped; he squirmed, legs widening, fingers tightening in Mickey’s hair. 

And Mickey fucking loved it; loved that he did this to Jackson, loved that he could make the other man a mess like this. He sucked marks around the roses, inhaling Jackson’s scent, his own throat letting out these tortured moans, because everything about Jackson just fucking did it for Mickey. Every single thing.

In a matter of seconds, Mickey got Jackson’s boxers off of him, “Fuck,” he whispered, looking him up and down. The other man was breathing heavy under him, hard, flushed, _ready_. “Look so fucking good,” Mickey told him.

And then Mickey took Jackson into his mouth; hot and heavy, stretching his jaw open as he drew him in deep, settling comfortably between his legs. The noises that spilled from Jackson’s mouth were so hot —low grunts paired with drawn out moans.

“Yeah,” Jackson panted. “Like that, like that…”

Mickey moaned around him, taking him deep, then almost pulling off, using his hand. Jackson tasted so fucking good, felt so good sliding between his lips like this. He loved doing this for his boyfriend, loved when Jackson touched the back of his neck, grabbed onto his hair, let his mouth run and his leg tremble. Mickey just _liked_ this shit; fucking loved it. 

It took so damn long for him to not feel like he looked like a bitch when he had a dick in his mouth, and now that he was over that shit, now that it was okay, and he was _safe_ … god damn straight he was going to treat his boyfriend fucking right. God damn straight he was going to enjoy this. He _more_ than earned it.

“Lemme see,” Jackson panted — _pleaded_ , gently tugging at Mickey’s hair. “Look at… fuck, look at me.”

Mickey tilted his head just enough so he could look up at Jackson, and show him his eyes, like he liked. Jackson propped himself up on one elbow, fingers brushing the side of Mickey’s cheek, his dark eyes heavy, threatening to close.

“Fucking pretty eyes,” Jackson slurred. “So fucking pretty —so fucking, so…”

Mickey felt the back of his neck, and his cheeks heat up, from Jackson’s words. So he went with it, not looking away from his boyfriend’s dark eyes, not even for a fucking second. Jackson stared right back at him, his sight going back and forth between Mickey’s mouth, and his eyes. He was whispering something, but Mickey couldn’t understand him, it was so low and all slurred together.

“This good?” Mickey asked after pulling off of Jackson’s erection, replacing his mouth with his hand; tight, slick, measured. He smirked at his boyfriend, teasing him, “You’re a fucking mess.”

Jackson babbled some more as he fell onto his back again, body tensing up, back trying to arch, hips canting under Mickey’s grip. Then he reached down, hooking his hands around Mickey’s arms, pulling him up. Mickey laughed as he followed, crawling up Jackson’s body, kissing him hard, letting Jackson taste himself on his tongue.

“Want you,” Jackson moaned. “Please —want you to fuck me.”

Heat instantly pooled in Mickey’s belly. He moaned, dropping his head to the crook of Jackson’s neck, pushing against him. He still had his own sweatpants on, but could feel how hard and hot Jackson was against him. The thought of topping Jackson… fuck. Yes. Please.

“Okay,” he panted, kissing Jackson softly again, quick. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Jackson breathed back, so strung out. “M’so fucking sure.”

And who was Mickey to deny Jackson? He grinned at his boyfriend, kissing him again, and again. They breathed together, mouths and tongues and hands everywhere; grabbing and scratching, scraping teeth and sucking marks. It all melted together… where Mickey started, where Jackson ended.

Mickey got Jackson ready slow; sliding fingers, and soft pressure, and wet, heavy breath. He laid over Jackson’s back, pressing his face into the side of his neck, then his mouth to his ear, while Jackson moaned loud, hands grabbing at the sheets. It was beautiful, watching Jackson being pulled apart like that, watching him give everything to Mickey.

And then he settled behind his boyfriend, taking his time. Slow. Careful. Hand sliding up the length of Jackson’s spine, Mickey pressed into him. And it was fucking perfect. Made Mickey’s eyes roll back, made him let out an almost painful sounding grunt.

“Fuck… oh my god,” Mickey clenched his eyes shut, bending over Jackson’s back, pressing his forehead into his shoulder. Jackson was tight and hot around him, taking him perfectly, taking all of him. Fuck. He couldn’t think beyond _yes_.

“Feel so good,” Jackson shuddered under Mickey, his hand reaching back and grabbing at Mickey’s thigh, his hip. “C’mon, fuck —Mick, c’mon.”

Mickey couldn’t help but grin at his boyfriend’s desperate, gasping voice. He didn’t move yet, not yet, he wanted to feel this, wanted it to last. He bit at the back of Jackson’s shoulder, then kissed the bitten skin, whispering to him, “How you want it?”

Jackson shuddered again, like he got chills. He looked over his shoulder and smirked at Mickey, all slow and fucked, his eyes unfocused, “Show me what you got.”

Mickey groaned, rocked his hips, teasing Jackson, “Yeah?” Jackson nodded, wetting his lips, and it was probably the sexiest fucking thing Mickey had seen in a long… long time. “That right?” he said, kissing him, murmuring against Jackson’s mouth. He rolled his hips, just slightly, just enough to draw a strangled noise out of his boyfriend’s open mouth. “Want me to take care of you, huh.”

“Please,” Jackson whispered.

Mickey kissed him again, sloppy —clumsy, before he gently pulled from Jackson’s body, and before he even had the chance to tell Jackson to turn over, his boyfriend was already on his back, and reaching for him. And Mickey couldn’t help but laugh a little at that, feeling warm, feeling wanted.

He laid heavily on top of Jackson, one hand planted by his head, the other reaching down to guide himself. He pushed slow again, careful. Jackson opened up so fucking nice for him, but he was still tight as hell, and made Mickey have to take a couple deep breaths to ground himself.

“So fucking full,” Jackson whispered, grabbing at the back of Mickey’s neck. “Fuck babe, so… oh my god.”

Mickey sunk into his boyfriend, bottomed out; both of them shuddered, both of them cursing and panting hard. Jackson whined, his legs moving up Mickey’s waist, arching, moving under him. Every move that Jackson made made Mickey breathe a desperate sound, made him see stars.

“C’mon,” Jackson was whispering again. “Please —c’mon…”

Mickey bent down to kiss Jackson, rolling his hips again, easing his boyfriend, “Didn’t know you were such a bottom,” he teased.

Jackson laughed against his mouth, “I love when you talk sweet to me.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey kissed him again. 

Fucking Jackson… fucking Jackson was near magic. He slipped his hand into Jackson’s hair, pulling his head back so he could get to the column of his throat, kissing and tonguing at his skin, biting at him. And the sounds that Mickey pulled from his boyfriend, the faces and breathy moans that fell out of that _fuck you_ mouth were _everything_ to Mickey. Jackson said _yes_ , and _there_ , and _so fucking good_ , while he grabbed at Mickey, legs tightening on either side of him, trying to climb higher.

The headboard knocked against the wall, and Mickey rolled his hips faster, pushed harder. “Fuck! There!” Jackson near shouted, reaching up to grab the headboard with one hand, his other going straight to his dick. “Shitshitshit —right there, fuck, you’re so fucking… Mickey —fuck!”

Mickey blinked the stars out of his eyes, grinned. The sick sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room, and it was so hot. So perfect. “Look so fucking good taking it.”

Then Jackson was reaching for him, tugging him down, “C’mere, babe, c’mere —please,” he gasped.

Mickey went to him, pace slowing down, hips rolling into his boyfriend deep, still deep, still hard. Even when Jackson kissed him soft, even when he felt fingers card gently into his hair, so gently that Mickey almost stopped, almost slowed down. But he couldn’t. Chasing his own orgasm, driving hard towards Jackson’s. 

There was this part of Mickey that was petty and jealous. He wanted to fuck Jackson like no one ever fucked him before. Wanted his boyfriend to crave him, only him. Mickey needed him. He loved him. 

And then when Jackson breathed hard into their kiss, when he whispered to him, _you feel so good; perfect, you’re fucking perfect; just like that; fuck, you’re beautiful,_ and tightening his legs around his waist… he finally got it; something set off, clicked, whatever. They’d spent all night, and all day being together, talking, touching, holding each other, just _being_. Mickey loved his boyfriend so much, he really did. It was real. Jackson was real. _They_ were real. What Jackson had been saying all along. He _believed_ him. There was no one else —no man, no woman— that Jackson wanted. Only Mickey. And Mickey was enough.

And right there in that moment, they were just left there. Just Mickey. Just Jackson. Just them. Together. Skin, and breath, and sweat, and heat. Just them. Only them.

“I got you,” Jackson whispered. “Look at me.”

Mickey did, mouth open, nose brushing Jackson’s, their hot breath crashing between them. His eyes were dark, focused but still soft. Mickey rolled his hips, deep, rolled them hard, pushing pushing pushing, unable to hold back his own quiet noises. He couldn’t look away from Jackson’s eyes, not for a fucking second, he couldn’t. Not yet, not yet.

“Jack,” he gasped, flooding with heat, and urgency —that need. His eyes stung, and he wasn’t sure if he was about to be _that guy_ , getting so overwhelmed. His hips stuttered, even though he tried to keep going. “I…”

“I know,” Jackson nodded, pushing up to kiss Mickey hard.

Mickey didn’t know how many pushes it took; all he knew is that it was hard to catch his breath, and his eyes wouldn’t stop stinging, and Jackson was pressing his heels into the small of his back, his ass. All he knew was that he didn’t want to come yet, but he fucking _needed_ to.

It was all so much. Too much. Mickey stammered, laying heavily on top of Jackson —as best as he could, anyway, with his boyfriend’s hand pulling at himself between them. He got lost in dark eyes, and told him, _desperately_ , not being able to hold his tongue. It all crashed down onto Mickey, and he was left punching out his words. Breathless, wanting, needing, “I love you. Fuck… I fucking love you.”

“I love you too,” Jackson breathed back, holding the back of Mickey’s neck, pulling him down to kiss him hard and rasp against his mouth, “Come with me, okay? Come with me. Fuck, just like that —right there…”

Mickey nodded as best he could, then pressed his forehead against Jackson’s, pushing harder, faster. He was right there, slipping slipping _slipping_. And then, a release like ten years worth of holding his breath; he was finally able to breathe again. Jackson was right there with him, loud and arching, and tensing all at once, spilling between them.

“J,” Mickey grunted, pushing his mouth against Jackson’s, trying to kiss him and breathe all at once, trying to collect himself, but he was boneless, slipping from his boyfriend, easing the condom off carefully. 

He was hot all over, throbbing, his heart beat booming through his veins. There was a box of tissues on Jackson’s night stand, and Mickey grabbed some, balling the condom up in one, tossing it to the side somewhere for later, and then helped his sweaty, flushed boyfriend to clean himself up. Both of them were panting like they just ran a marathon, falling side by side on the bed, tangled up in the sheets, staring up at the ceiling like couples in tv shows do.

“Knew it,” Jackson’s voice was strained, breathy, but Mickey heard his smile. Mickey felt him brush his fingers against the outside of his thigh, so he reached for Jackson’s hand, tangling their fingers.

“Knew what?” Mickey asked, turning his head so he could see his boyfriend.

Jackson grinned at him, sleepy and slow, “I knew you could _fuck_.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, eyes rolling, “Okay.”

They were quiet for a while, not needing to fill the silence up. Mickey reached for Jackson’s hand, slipping his fingers into the spaces between his boyfriend’s. He closed his eyes, humming softly when he felt Jackson move beside him, curling up against his side, leaning over to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

After a few more silent moments, Jackson broke it, hand sliding up Mickey’s sternum, resting there as he propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at Mickey, “I want you to meet my mom.”

Mickey arched a brow at his boyfriend, not really knowing how to respond. So he just said, “Okay.”

“Told her about you,” he said. “Told her I…” his face got pink and he shook his head, snorting a laugh at himself.

Mickey grinned, moving to mirror Jackson’s position, propping himself up on his elbow, facing his boyfriend, eyes wide and teasing, “You told her you what?”

Jackson narrowed his eyes at Mickey, but his smile stayed, “I told her I was dating a rude motherfucker.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey laughed, wrapping his free arm over Jackson’s middle and dragging him closer. He kissed him soft, simple, murmuring against his lips, “Tell me.”

He rolled his eyes, fingers brushing the base of Mickey’s throat, “I told her that, uh, I told her that I’m really happy with this guy, and… I, you know,” his cheeks bloomed red even more, a nervous wide smile cracking over his mouth. Then he looked back up at Mickey and shrugged, taking a deep breath, “Told her that I think I found… it.”

“Found what?” Mickey murmured, fingers tracing soft patterns on a little patch of Jackson’s back. His heart was thrashing in his chest, throat tight, but he kept himself in check, holding Jackson close, skin to skin. 

Again, his boyfriend shrugged, “You know…”

Mickey smirked a little, taking Jackson’s chin, tilting his head so he had to look at him, “Since when are you fucking shy?” he teased, lightly.

He took a deep breath, leaning into Mickey’s touch when he slid his hand to hold the side of his face, “You know, _it_. You. I want you, in my life. All the time. For… for as long as,”

“Why do you say that?” Mickey cleared his throat. “For as long as I want you around —like I’m gonna change my mind out of the fucking blue?”

“I dunno,” Jackson answered.

Mickey leaned forward, pressing his lips against Jackson’s, “Just say it. Say what you want, without all that other shit.”

“I want you,” Jackson told him. His breath was hot against Mickey’s mouth, words thick but clear, “Always. Every fucking part, I want you, I want this… I wanna…”

“Tell me,” Mickey whispered. He could barely breathe.

“Wanna, like, build something with you,” Jackson answered. “You know? You, and your son, and even Svetlana. I’m in this, I’m all in—”

Mickey’s lips were moving against Jackson’s. It hadn’t even been a full year, and maybe some people would say that they were moving a little fast, but it was so fucking right. It felt right, and hearing Jackson say that? Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey couldn’t even think straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com)
> 
> -
> 
> It happened. Mickey topped the hell outta Jackson, and Jack's got a lil powerbottom in him? Just a lil? Yeah. Got that good good. (this was actually really unplanned, on my part lmao)
> 
> I know their discussion about Jackson's bisexuality was more on the light side, with Mickey asking inappropriate questions and all that, but given everything else going on in the chapter, I felt like poking fun at stereotypes. Because why not.
> 
> I've been sitting on Jackson's "secret" thing this whole time. Do you even know how hard it was to not say anything? lmao. Baby was going THROUGH it after Katie died. He was a different guy. But he's good now, lil sunshine boy.


	15. Not Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay 
> 
> 1\. I wanted to throw something up before I get hit by this hurricane tonight or tomorrow. This is kinda-sort a filler chapter, but it's got some good stuff in it, I think.
> 
> 2\. I had to retcon something in this. [You can read about it here](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com/post/150607908343/holy-shit-important-information-about-mickey-x) (I really suggest reading it, I hate retconning shit in fics, but it's really important to me. Not very huge, but blah. Whatever.

Mickey still hadn’t met Jackson’s mother yet, and it had been a few weeks since Jackson told him that he wanted them to meet. Mickey definitely wasn’t complaining. He’d never done the proper meet the parent type thing. 

No one was putting it off, Jackson had just been real busy at work (Omar had been having problems with his hands —beginnings for arthritis or some shit, and so everyone had to pick up some of the slack with his clients), and his mother had some complications at her work too, taking up her time. But besides that, all these worries kept bubbling up —did she know about Mickey? Like, really know —did she know her son was dating an ex-con, locked up for attempted murder? Did she know that Mickey had a threat tattooed across his fingers, and scars on his body from bullet wounds?

_“What happened here?” Jackson asked, his voice soft._

_Mickey was laid out in bed, completely fucking naked, while Jackson pressed against his side —also naked. His boyfriend had been just looking at Mickey, touching him, running his fingers over different scars, asking him about them while Mickey absentmindedly ran his fingers through Jackson’s hair, watching him. Mickey told him about every single one —all that he could remember anyway. Some he forgot._

_Then he got to the scar on his thigh. His fingers brushing over the small patch of skin, lightly raised, kind of shiny. Jackson leaned over and pressed a kiss to it, just like he had all the others._

_“Got shot,” Mickey told him. He smirked with Jackson looked at him with wide, dark eyes. “Yeah. I uh… stole a candy bar from this store, and the owner had had enough of my shit, I guess. Used to steal a lot from there.”_

_“Over a candy bar?” Jackson frowned._

_Mickey suppressed a laugh; eh... candy bar, under-aged redhead —whatever, right? Bringing up that it was really over Ian wouldn’t do anyone any favors —didn’t really even matter. “Pretty sure he was aiming for my head.”_

_“Good thing he had shitty aim,” Jackson murmured. He leaned over again to kiss the scar, this time taking his time; Mickey felt his body tighten up, felt himself go all hot when Jackson tasted his skin, his tongue gently pressing against the scar._

_He lifted an eyebrow, grinning a little at Jackson, “I uh… got shot in the ass too. If you wanna kiss **that**  too.”_

_Jackson popped his head up, frowning even harder this time, “That’s what those scars are…”_

_Mickey nodded, “Yeah.”_

_His boyfriend huffed, irritated, like he was personally offended. He moved to hover over Mickey, settling between his legs, pressing them together. Mickey bit his bottom lip, knees bending, inching up Jackson's hips. They were nose to nose, Jackson’s arms caging him in, “You telling me someone shot my baby in the ass?”_

_Mickey snorted a laugh, eyes rolling, “Come on, man…”_

_Jackson shook his head, one of his arms snaking under Mickey, pulling him up, pulling him close. His body was so warm, and felt so fucking good, Mickey couldn’t help but hum a little from the feeling._

_“Someone shot my baby in the ass?” Jackson repeated. His hand slid down Mickey’s back, down to his ass, cupping him, pulling him closer. Jackson nuzzled his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck, kissing him there. And Mickey couldn’t even pretend that he didn’t love this shit, couldn’t even deny that he missed softness like this, he missed it so much for so long._

_Mickey wrapped his arms around Jackson’s shoulders, grinning, knowing his face was ten shades of red, “Buckshot too, hurt real bad. Should uh, you know, make it better. Still hurts sometimes.”_

_He felt Jackson smile against him, felt his body twitch and harden, making Mickey’s body do the same. Then Jackson lifted his head to look down at Mickey, dark eyes shining, “Does it really hurt sometimes, or are you fucking with me?”_

_Mickey rolled his eyes, smiling, showing Jackson that he was fucking with him. Jackson grunted, dropping his head back down to Mickey’s neck, his teeth nipping at him until it tickled, making Mickey squirm under him._

Mickey smirked a little at the memory of the other night, but it quickly disappeared. Things kept popping up in his head. Things that didn’t have anything to do with each other. His mind was antsy this morning, racing a little.

This wasn’t going to be easy. Mickey felt so fucking stupid. Felt kind of like a jackass, to be honest. He flipped the last pancake, letting it cook on the other side, hearing some rustling going on in Jackson’s bedroom; must be out of the shower already. Just in time.

Maybe banana pancakes and coffee would help ease the situation a little. He’d been so upfront with Jackson about everything, and in the grand scheme of things, this _other thing_ wasn’t even that big of a deal, but what if for some reason it was to Jackson? 

Mickey thought maybe he was getting ahead of himself, overthinking shit. He did that, he knew. It was just… ninety-nine percent of the time, he felt so good about being in a relationship again. He actually _really_ fucking loved being in a relationship; he'd forgotten that. He loved being a boyfriend, loved loving someone, loved loving _Jackson_ and being loved by him in return. 

It’s not a big deal, he told himself. Not a big deal. Technically not a lie —maybe it was. It was. It definitely was.

“Something burning?”

“Fuck!” Mickey tore away from his thoughts. He turned the stove off quickly, then scraped the pancake out of the pan, tossing it directly into the sink.

Jackson came up behind him, hands brushing his hips, a small kiss placed at the base of his neck, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Mickey grumbled, running the pan under the faucet. He accidentally touched the edge, burning his finger; he cursed under his breath, shaking his head, “Not fucking paying attention.”

“Hey,” Jackson’s hands were suddenly on his hands, easing them away from pan, and the sink and the spatula. He chuckled low, turning the faucet off, “I’ll get it later, okay?”

His nerves were getting to him. Over fucking nothing. _It wasn’t a big deal_. Mickey just nodded, letting his boyfriend lead him away from the sink. 

“Here, go sit down, I’ll bring the food over,” Jackson eyed Mickey.

He didn’t even fight it. Mickey signed, grabbing both steaming mugs of coffee that he already poured for him and his boyfriend, bringing it to the little kitchen table. He sat down, watching Jackson coming over to the table, putting a plate down in front of both of them. 

“Smells good,” Jackson commented, his knee bumping lightly against Mickey’s. “Thanks, babe.”

Mickey just nodded, reaching for the syrup, “Yeah.” He dropped the bottle —thankfully the cap was still on, and nothing spilled. He cursed, picking it back up. What the fuck was wrong with him? Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay,” Jackson sighed, putting his fork down. “What’s going on?”

Mickey sighed heavy, shaking his head. “I gotta talk to you about something.”

Jackson sat, quiet and waiting.

It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t a big fucking deal, and yet Mickey’s head was fucking berating him for keeping it from his boyfriend, for lying. “You know how you’ve been telling me I should go to barber school?”

His boyfriend looked even more confused, pulling a face, “Yeah…”

Mickey took a deep breath, pushing his plate of pancakes away from himself, suddenly not very hungry —mostly because he was being a little bitch about this. “I already… I have my barber’s license. Got it in prison. I’ve had it this whole fucking time.”

It was quiet for a minute. Mickey looked over at Jackson, who still had that wildly confused look on his face. Then he shook his head, fingers reaching up to scratch at his dark curls before resting his elbow on the table, still looking at Mickey.

“What?”

“I already—”

“No, I heard you,” Jackson cut him off, head still shaking, still looking confused. “I heard you, I’m just trying… you’ve had your barber’s license this _entire_ time?”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed.

“So you just sat there and let me go on and on about it?”

“I know,” Mickey said. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to leave all that shit behind me. It was fucking prison, Jack. I wanted to forget all of it.”

Jackson scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darting around the kitchen in thought, “Okay, I get that, but…” he sighed, shaking his head. “Of all the things to lie about, _really_?”

Mickey couldn’t do much else but helplessly shrug his shoulders, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Jackson looked at him for another minute, his eyes narrowed slightly, like he was thinking. Mickey felt so fucking stupid. Jackson probably thought he was a moron. This was fucking awful. It wasn’t even that big of a deal —except for the lying thing. Mickey lied to Jackson about something so dumb, now Jackson was wondering if anything else was a lie.

“I swear, that’s the only thing I lied about,” Mickey added.

“Mickey, I get that you wanted to leave everything from prison behind,” Jackson started, speaking slow like he was still trying to put this all together. “But lying about having your barber’s license?”

Heat bled over the back of Mickey’s neck. This was so dumb, and so embarrassing. “I fucking _know_ , okay? I lied about something fucking stupid, I know!”

Jackson reached over, putting his hand on Mickey’s arm, “Calm down for a second.”

Mickey sucked at his teeth, leaning back but not taking his arm away from his boyfriend, “Don’t fucking tell me to calm down—”

Jackson frowned at him again, putting his other hand on his own chest as he spoke while the hand on Mickey’s arm squeezed him gently, “I’m not mad —I’m not yelling, I’m just trying to understand why. _You’re_ getting mad.”

Mickey didn’t have an answer for Jackson, so he just sat there, quiet. His mind was going a million miles an hour again, fucked up little voice in the back of his head telling him that Jackson thought he was a fucking idiot, that Jackson doubted everything that Mickey opened up to him about now.

“I just don’t understand why you thought you had to leave something like that behind,” Jackson continued. He scooted his chair closer to Mickey, looking him in the eyes. “That’s huge, Mick. Should be proud of yourself for that… not _lying_ about it.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yes it is,” Jackson defended. “You _did_ something when you were locked up. Got your fucking GED, got your barber’s license. You realize that, right? You do realize that you took steps to set yourself up for life after all that shit. That’s not _nothing_.”

Again, Mickey felt heat bleeding over his skin, his face. Jackson was looking at him with his big brown eyes, and his scruff. Smelling like shampoo and soap, face open and honest. Overwhelming again, just like always.

And now even more shit was flooding Mickey, good shit and bad shit. Because here was his boyfriend —so good, Jackson was so fucking _good_. He was a good person, had friends who were good people. Mickey didn’t know what was happening to him, but he felt all tight in his chest, and his eyes sting. Jackson was so good, and Mickey’s hands had done so much damage in the last ten years — _and_ before that. He tried to separate himself from it, but it kept circling back to meeting Jackson’s mother. If Yev brought home someone who had been locked up for nine years for attempted murder, had scars from bullets and fighting, had that fucking threat tattooed across their knuckles… not only would Svetlana freak the fuck out, but Mickey was pretty sure he would as well.

Jackson’s dark eyes narrowed just a little, like he saw something in Mickey’s blue ones. His head tilted to the side, hands coming up to hold Mickey’s face, holding him firmly, “Mickey, it’s okay.”

“M’freaking the fuck out about meeting your mom,” Mickey blurted out, cutting off Jackson’s words. There, he fucking said it.

Jackson’s brows arched up, his mouth going slack, as he dropped his hands from Mickey’s face, going for his hands, “Oh… oh fuck, Mick, is that’s what’s going on with you?”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, shoulders shrugging. Again, he felt so fucking dumb, it was hard to look Jackson in the eye right now. All this bullshit —being a little bitch about meeting his mom. But it was important —Jackson’s mom was important to him, so she was important to Mickey in a way, too. He didn’t want to fuck it up, and all he could think about was the fact that he spent nine fucking years in a cell for trying to kill someone. Who brings people like that home?

“She’s gonna take one look at me—”

“No she’s not,” Jackson shook his head, scooting closer to their knees were touching. “She’s gonna love you… because I love you. And because you’re fucking awesome.”

“Does she know about me?” Mickey asked.

Jackson frowned, “I told you that I told her I was—”

Mickey shook his head, “I mean, does she _know_? She know I’ve been locked up?”

His boyfriend sighed, head tilting to the side, “I didn’t think it was my business to tell her that,” he said. “If you wanna tell her that one day, that’s your decision.”

He felt a little sick. Mickey untangled his hands from Jackson’s, scrubbing his face with the pads of his fingers, “Fuck.” 

“Mickey,” Jackson took his hands away from his face carefully, looking him in the eyes, “She’s going to love you, okay? Who I date is _my_ business —she doesn’t interfere with that. I’m an adult, I make my own decisions without my mother’s permission… been doing that long before I was an adult, actually. She knows that —she trusts me.”

Again, Mickey didn’t really know what to say. He took a deep breath, nodding, leaning into Jackson’s touch when he cupped the side of his face. “Alright.”

Jackson leaned closer until his lips ghosted over Mickey’s, “She’s gonna love you, okay? You’re amazing. You make me happy. That’s all she cares about.”

“Okay,” Mickey breathed.

“C’mere,” Jackson said. Mickey did.

 

* * *

 

Mickey kept sneaking glances at the end of the bar. This was Jackson’s second time being in the actual bar, and Mickey just wanted to make sure that no one said anything stupid to him. He was freaking out over nothing, he knew that —and no one was going to say anything around Yev, but still. Seeing Vee walk up to his boyfriend, putting her hand on his shoulder, asking him if he needed anything… shit, it was surreal. 

The first time Kev and Vee met Jackson, it had been simple. Just in passing. Mickey was taking Jackson up to the apartment, when they ran into the two of them. Kev got that dopey look on his face, all high eyebrows and wide grin; Vee pursed her lips while she tried not to smile. Quick introductions, an impatient Mickey just trying to get his boyfriend upstairs so they could eat dinner. Then Kev had fucking winked at him, and Mickey wanted to reach over and deck him in the fucking mouth.

“They seem to be getting along.”

Mickey looked away from Jackson and Yev. Jackson had volunteered to help with some English homework, because evidently he was good at that shit. Seeing his boyfriend sitting at the end of the bar with his son, huddled together, going through one of Yev’s text books, writing stuff down in a notebook… kinda made Mickey feel all warm in his chest. He liked that picture.

“Yeah.”

“So Yev’s really on board with the new boyfriend thing, huh?”

Mickey shrugged, glancing back over at the two in question real quick, before turning back to Kev. “So far, so good.”

“He got any kids?”

Mickey shook his head, “Nah. Got a cat. Ugly motherfucker.”

Kev chuckled, wringing out his towel over the sink. “Hate cats. So, does he drink?”

Mickey snorted a laugh, grabbing another glass to clean, “Of course he fucking drinks, he’s with me.”

“God help him,” Kev teased, nudging Mickey with his elbow.

Despite himself, Mickey grinned. God help him, is right.

A few minutes later, Jackson was standing on the other side of the bar, across from Mickey, an apologetic frown on his face. “Omar needs me to take a client for him —Yev’s almost done with his report, it cool if I head out for like an hour or two? If he needs help finishing up, I can see if I can get—”

“Jack,” Mickey couldn’t help but grin at his boyfriend. “It’s cool, go do what you gotta do, man. If he needs help, we can figure that shit out. You got a job.”

Jackson’s cheeks flushed a little as he nodded, glancing over at Kev real quick. Then he gave Mickey a little look, like a silent question if it was okay to lean over the bar and give him a kiss. Mickey didn’t really know how he knew, but he did. There was a pull at his gut; Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, arching a brow back at his boyfriend. He wasn’t sure if he was okay with that yet —in front of Kev; in front of his son.

Jackson nodded, taking a deep breath, “I’ll call you later?”

Mickey nodded back, then felt a hand come down on his shoulder, and Kev’s voice speaking low in his ear, “Run your boyfriend out to his car real quick, do what ya gotta do, but make it fast.”

Jackson laughed, scratching the back of his neck. Mickey rolled his eyes, dropping the towel he had in his hands. He gave Kev a pointed look, “Be right back.”

Kev grinned wide at him, winking, “Alright.”

It was probably a mistake, going out to Jackson’s car without a jacket. Jackson had parked in the back, near the back door, and Mickey was going to be quick, so he could get back to work. The cold chilled him, but he grinned against Jackson’s mouth, pushing him against the side of the car.

It was quick, and kind of silly; Jackson laughed against Mickey’s mouth, holding his face while Mickey curled his hands in his boyfriend’s jacket, grinning into the kiss. Cold kisses in the cold air, but their breath was hot against each other, warming their lips.

“Thanks for helping Yev,” Mickey panted, breaking off their kiss. 

Jackson grinned back at him, all bundled up in his jacket, fingers lightly pressing into Mickey’s cheeks as he still held him there. His boyfriend shrugged, pressing forward to brush his lips across Mickey’s one last time, making his stomach flutter.

“S’no problem,” Jackson said. “Go inside so you don’t get sick. Gotta have you healthy.”

Mickey rolled his eyes at the other man, “Yeah, okay. One more?”

Jackson hummed, dropping another kiss to Mickey’s lips, this time softer, slower, drawing his bottom lip between his own lips, gently sucking. Mickey shuddered, pressing Jackson against the side of the car, trying to deepen the kiss even more. He tasted so good and kissed him so fucking nice. Just five more minutes, that’s all he needed. Didn’t matter that his arms were freezing, he’d take it. Just five more minutes.

“Gotta go,” Jackson whispered, but kissed him again.

“Mmhm,” Mickey hummed back.

“Shouldn’t be out here without a jacket,” Jackson kissed him again.

“Mmhm,” Mickey hummed again. 

 

* * *

 

Yev was snoring. Kind of snoring —more like breathing hard, mouth open, head tilted back against the arm of the couch. He was all sprawled out, one of his feet propped up on Mickey’s knee, the other resting on the floor, arms nothing but dead weight on either side of him. Completely relaxed, open. Comfortable. 

Mickey felt the corner of his mouth pull up at the sight. He can’t really remember ever sleeping like that at Yev’s age, just starfished out like that, dead to the world. He’s happy that his son gets to sleep like that. Trusting. Milkoviches have come a long way —that Milkovich at least.

The arm around his middle tightens gently, the body behind him shifting. Mickey turns his head just enough to see Jackson also dead to the world. His head tilted back against the back of the couch, but his mouth is closed and his sniffs in his sleep. His two boys. Mickey feels warm inside, feels like he’s lighting up, but soft at the same time.

The credits of the movie are rolling by slow, the music playing soft. Empty popcorn bowl on the coffee table, a couple beer bottles, a can of soda. Snickers bar wrapper —Yev was kind enough to share.

Mickey barely has the heart to move, but the three of them should get into bed, not sleep on the couch all night. If Yev wakes up with a crick in his neck, that wouldn't be good; if Jackson wakes up with an aching back, he’d be hurting all fucking day at work. So here Mickey was… responsible adult. _Dad_. _Boyfriend_.

He breathed a laugh, gently untangling himself from Jackson’s hold, carefully removing Yev’s foot from his knee. He hesitated. Wake the kid up and tell him to get in bed? Mickey sighed, scratching the back of his neck. He glanced behind him, to the hallway past the living room. First door on the left was where Yev’s bedroom door was. 

“Guess we’re doing this,” Mickey murmured under his breath.

Carefully, he gathered Yev up in his arms. Kid was a heavy little fucker, despite his slim frame. He didn’t know if he was doing it right, didn’t know the proper procedure for picking a ten year old up. But Yev moved in his sleep, his arms and legs wrapping around Mickey, hugging on to him tight like a panda in a tree. So Mickey held him around the middle, pausing for a second.

The last time he held Yev, he’d been a baby. Mickey hadn’t even wanted to hold him, but Svetlana had put him in his arms, and the kid had been so fucking small, and fragile. And all Mickey could see when he looked down at this innocent little baby was all of his nightmares rolled into one, come to life.

But now that baby was ten years old, and Mickey was holding him, and all of that shit was so far away. Still there. Still lingering around in the back of his mind, in his history. But fuck, it seemed so far away now. Because he was holding his son, who he loved, and his boyfriend was passed out on the couch, and the apartment was quiet. And clean. And warm. Calm.

Mickey held on a little tighter, savored the moment a little while longer. This was his son. His baby. His son who trusted him —god knows why, but he did. So Mickey took Yev to his room, carefully laying him in bed, tucking him in. The kid smacked his lips in his sleep, curling up on his side, nuzzling into his pillow. Like Mickey. He slept like Mickey.

He made sure the covers were laid on top of Yev nice. Made sure the little nightlight was on (the one that Yev was embarrassed about, and that Mickey wasn’t technically supposed to know about, according to Svet). He brushed Yev’s hair out of his face, kissed him on the forehead, then turned to leave his son’s room.

Jackson was there, leaning in the door frame, arms folded over his chest, small grin on his lips. Mickey felt his cheeks heat up, but stayed silent, following Jackson out, closing the door behind them. 

“I wake you?” he asked.

Jackson shrugged, “It’s okay. Should probably head out.”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip. It was late. And honestly, he didn’t want Jackson to go, not yet. Not after he’d spent time with Mickey and Yev, watching a movie and eating popcorn, and laughing at the stupid jokes.

“Don’t have to,” Mickey said. “You could stay.”

Jackson sighed, closing the space between them. Mickey leaned into his boyfriend when he wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Mickey got him around the middle, and they stood there for a minute, just holding each other until Jackson pressed a soft kiss to Mickey’s lips. Perfect.

“Maybe next time,” Jackson said. “Just don’t wanna stay the night without Yev knowing. Have him wake up, and I’m in your bed or something… you know?”

Mickey frowned, pulling his head back so he could look at Jackson better, “He won’t care.”

His boyfriend gave him a crooked smile, “Mick, lemme take it slow with him, okay? I don’t want to invade his space like that. This is _his_ home.”

He was probably right. Mickey sighed heavily, “What about what I want?” it sounded like a pout —kind of came out like a pout.

Jackson breathed a laugh, pressing another kiss to Mickey’s lips, “Baby’s so neglected.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey chuckled into the kiss.

“Walk me to the door?”

Mickey nodded, following Jackson out of the hallway. He’d have to clean up their mess before heading to bed. Svetlana’s bedroom for had been closed most of the night —she went to bed early, ditching the boys about halfway through the “stupid comic book superhero shit”. He knew that if he left their shit out until tomorrow, he’d catch hell from the Russian, and he really just didn’t want to hear that shit. Svet liked to keep a nice, clean ship.

Jackson played with the collar of Mickey’s shirt as they stood in front of the door. They were quiet, just looking at each other. Fuck, Mickey really wanted Jackson to stay. Wanted to take him into his room, get under the covers, curl up all night together. But he wanted his boyfriend to do this the way he wanted to, not push him, not push Yev.

“Thanks again for helping Yev with his homework earlier,” Mickey said.

His boyfriend shrugged, “Told you, it’s no big deal.”

“It is,” Mickey said. He chewed on his bottom lip, sighing. “I’m good at math, but… other shit, not so much. Not all the time. Didn’t give a fuck about school, growing up. Want him to do better than that, you know?”

Jackson slid his hands up to hold onto the sides of Mickey’s face, giving him a soft smile, “That’s how you know you’re a good dad.”

Mickey breathed a laugh, eyes rolling, “I’ve been gone his whole fucking life, I’m not—”

“You’re here now,” Jackson cut him off, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. His face was soft, but so serious, so focused. “You’re here, and you’re not going anywhere ever again. That’s _all_ that fucking matters.”

He leaned into Jackson’s touch, smirking at him, “You seem real sure about that.”

Jackson gave him a pointed look, softly pressing his forehead against Mickey’s. “Babe, I will kick your fucking ass up and down the entire state of Illinois before I let that happen.”

Mickey snorted a laugh; Jackson did too. And then he kissed him. Soft, slow. Mickey really wanted his boyfriend to stay, but Jackson was right, he probably shouldn’t. Not tonight. Maybe next time.

“I really love you,” Mickey whispered. “I do. I…”

Jackson brought his fingers to Mickey’s lips, quieting him. “You’re gonna save that for later,” he told him. “I wanna take you out, somewhere real nice, and you can tell me there.”

“Gonna wine and dine me?” Mickey teased.

Jackson nodded, dark eyes clear and honest, “Got a whole night planned.”

Mickey chuckled, “What’s the special occasion?”

Jackson gave him a little mischievous look, shrugging one shoulder as he kissed Mickey firmly on the mouth, “I’ll let you figure that out. One week from tonight, okay? You and me.” Another kiss. “Downtown.” Another. “Dinner.” Another, longer this time; softer. “Hotel.” One last kiss.

Mickey frowned a little, even though his insides were completely fucking mush, and his skin was on fire, “You set it up?”

Jackson nodded, “Let me be romantic, please. I’m _pretty_ good at it.”

“When did you set it up?”

He shrugged, “Yesterday —today… had a few extra minutes. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that next week, your ass is mine. And you’re _gonna_ let me romance the fuck outta you, and you’re _gonna_ fucking love it, despite all the faces you’re gonna pull and comments you’re gonna make.”

Mickey pulled a face, “Whatever. Seriously, what’s going on?”

Jackson kissed him again, reaching for the door. “Just think, Mick. I love you.”

“When were you gonna tell me about this?”

His boyfriend shrugged like it was obvious, “Now.”

“You’re fucking killing me.”

Jackson grinned; winked. And then he was gone, and Mickey so badly wanted to open the door again, wanted to run down the stairs after him, wanted to kiss him more and ask him what the fuck was next week. His stomach was twisting all over the place, breath heavier than it needed to be. What was next week? How could that little shit just drop that bomb, and then leave? What a fucking dick. 

Mickey grinned, locking the front door. Fuck, he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (btw if you're wondering about TBE, I'm going to try to finish the next chap & update it over the weekend, if I have power)


	16. Jackey & Michael

The house was small, and brick —brown, not red. Just one story, between two house that seemed to tower beside it. But the tiny front yard was nice, and there were yellow flowers in pots on either end of each step, leading up to the little porch, the front door. A newspaper thrown on the second step. A white sedan parked in the drive, next to the house.

Mickey felt a hand wrap around his elbow, giving him a gentle squeeze, “You okay?”

He nodded, looking over at Jackson, “You grow up here?”

“Yeah,” Jackson grinned, then looked at the house with Mickey. His grin slipped a little, and Mickey wasn’t sure if he was supposed to notice or not, but he went for Jackson’s hand anyway, giving him a squeeze in return.

“Okay, well lets do this before I change my mind,” Mickey mumbled.

Jackson snorted a laugh, tugging Mickey with him as he walked towards the house, “You wouldn’t.” 

He was right. Mickey rolled his eyes, following his boyfriend. The front door creaked a little when Jackson opened it, letting Mickey go first, closing it behind them. There was music playing, but soft, like it was turned down to the lowest volume. Blues.

Jackson took Mickey’s jacket, laying it over the back of a cream couch with his. Mickey kept looking around, eyes scanning everywhere he could look. The colors in the floral wallpaper were soft —blues, and pinks, and greens. Matching couch and love seat, glass coffee table. 

Mickey didn’t have a lot of experience with how mother’s decorate houses, but this seemed about what he’d picture. It was… mom-ish. He supposed. There were even a couple photographs of younger Jackson. One of when he had to have been three or four —another from grade school, then middle school, then high school. From full cheeks to angled features. Mickey smirked at the Jackson in front of him.

“Baby face,” he teased, pointing to the picture from high school. “You looked so fucking innocent, oh my god.”

Jackson’s cheeks went a little pink, but he smiled, eyes rolling. “You uh… think we woulda hooked up back then?”

Mickey arched his brows; he eyed his boyfriend up and down, then looked at the picture again before he sucked his teeth, “I dunno man… that’s a lot of Beiber hair. Probably would’ve thrown it in ya once, though.”

“Wow,” Jackson breathed a laugh, leading Mickey further into the small house, towards the kitchen. “Thanks, Romeo.”

His stomach was still pretty much in knots, but easing a little. Mickey followed right behind his boyfriend, towards the smell of food cooking, and just for a second, he couldn't help but think of when Jackson came to the apartment to meet Svet and Yev.

“Ma,” Jackson cleared his throat.

She must have been on the younger side when she had Jackson —but maybe she just looked good for her age. Evelyn Young had a head full of shoulder length brown hair, same dark eyes as Jackson, laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. As soon as she saw her son, her whole face lit up like it was the greatest day of her life. 

Her slim arms raised as she walked towards him, “Jackey,” she smiled wide, folding her arms around his shoulders. 

Mickey hung back a little, watching the two of them. He had this kind of shitty part of him that wanted to not like her, because of Jackson’s childhood. Days and nights all alone, no one to make him dinner, none to tuck him in. Mickey hated the thought of that. Jackson didn’t even have siblings to look out for him, growing up —no one to have his back if he needed it. No cousins, no aunts or uncles. Just him. All alone. 

But then he saw the way that Evelyn held him, the way her dark eyes closed as they hugged, her smile wide, fingers scratching through her son’s curls. He remembered what Jackson had told him —had to be that way, when he was a kid. No one liked it, but it just had to be that way. And it was obvious that she loved Jackson, obvious that he was her _entire_ fucking world.

“This is Mickey,” Jackson introduced. He had that smile that Mickey loved. All wide and honest. His eyes were clear and he breathed a little laugh, reaching for Mickey’s arm, gently pulling him closer. “Mickey, this is my mom —Evelyn.”

Mickey held out his hand, head nodding once, because he didn’t know what to do, “Nice to meet you.”

She waved off his hand with a small laugh, and pulled him in for a hug. It was quick, and he got a whiff of her light perfume —it was nice. “So nice to finally meet you!” she beamed at him, holding him out at arms length, looking at his face. “I’m so sorry that it’s taken so long to finally meet.”

Mickey held his breath, looking back at her, not knowing what to say. But he smiled, because he couldn’t help it, and there was something really nice about a mother looking at him like this, and being so warm, so quickly.

“Nice to meet you too,” he cleared his throat.

 

* * *

 

Evelyn had made some sort of chicken and rice casserole —green beans on the side, a plate of dinner rolls. The dining room table was small, but clean, draped with a simple dark blue table cloth. It looked like she really took the time to set up a nice dinner, and Mickey couldn’t help but feel a little warm because of it. 

She was nice. And not that fake North Side kind of nice, even though Mickey decided that it was best to speak to her like she _was_ from North Side, dropping the cursing, addressing her as ma’am, or Ms. Young. She told him to call her Evelyn if he wanted. Maybe he would next time. He was too focused on _not_ coming across as an ex-con.

“Michael, Jackey tells me that you have a son?”

And there was that. Mickey didn’t have the heart to correct her. Jackson had opened his mouth to do it, before, but Mickey shook his head at his boyfriend. It wasn’t that big of a deal. People assumed sometimes that his name was short for Michael. It was fine. Sounded _classier_ than Mickey, in his opinion. Respectable. 

_Mickey_ sounded like a criminal —there were so many of them, real and not real. Mick’s and Mickey’s were _those_ kinds of guys, except for the mouse. Fuck that mouse. _Michael_ sounded like someone with at least a high school degree, a real one.

“Yes,” Mickey answered. He fiddled with the handle of his fork, glancing over at Jackson —who was giving him an easy smile —an _it’s okay_ smile. He needed that; felt himself relax a little. “Yevgeny. He’s uh, he’s ten.”

“He’s a good kid,” Jackson said. “Really smart.”

“And you’re a bartender —over at The Alibi Room?”

“Yes ma’am,” Mickey nodded. He glanced over at Jackson again, taking a deep breath, “But as soon as I can, I’m planning on getting back into barbering.”

Jackson looked at him from across the table; wide eyes, wider smile, “You are?”

Mickey nodded again, “Yeah —figured it was time I get back to it.”

Evelyn took a sip from her wine glass, her eyes all lit up as she looked between the two of them, “You took a break?”

His stomach dropped a little. Mickey hesitated, feeling small for just a second, feeling lost at sea. It was only a second. Just one. He gathered himself before Jackson had the chance to intervene somehow. “Yeah… well, I moved back home almost a year ago. Just haven’t gotten back into it —had my job at the bar lined up already.”

Mickey reminded himself that Evelyn didn’t know about him being in prison, because her brows shot up in interest and she asked, “Where’d you move from?”

It was a perfectly fucking _normal_ question. A question that he realized, with a sinking stomach, that he set himself up perfectly for; he dug this hole with his own mouth. He got warm fast, raking his brain for an answer, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Lying to Jackson’s mom seemed so fucking _low_ , but he didn’t want her to freak out, didn’t want her to look at him different. She’d been so nice to him, so warm —been looking between him and Jackson like they were the only people on the planet. Fuck. This was not how this was supposed to go. 

“You want some more wine, ma?” Jackson interrupted. 

All casual about it —before the silence grew too long, before there was even a beat of awkwardness. He saved Mickey. Mickey took a deep breath as Evelyn said something in return, got his shit straight again. Evelyn looked back at him again, waiting for his answer. Her and Jackson had the same eyes. Same dark, warm brown eyes. Open, honest eyes. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

Mickey looked at Jackson, shaking his head, “I’m sorry,” he said.

His boyfriend, like always, just knew. He gave him a soft smile, nodding, “It’s okay.”

Evelyn frowned, sitting up a little straighter in her seat.

“Jackson’s really important to me, so I don’t wanna lie to you,” Mickey told her. He was sweating, could feel it heating and beading up on the back of his neck. 

For a second, he got distracted by Jackson getting up from his chair. Mickey watched his boyfriend walk around the table, bringing his chair. He put his chair between Mickey and Evelyn, sitting between them, reaching for Mickey’s hand to hold. It was surreal, for some reason. Kind of took Mickey a moment to get his bearings again, but he got them; felt stronger, felt more secure with Jackson there as a (honestly unnecessary, but appreciated) buffer.

“I got you,” Jackson told Mickey, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay.”

Still Evelyn was silent, watching this whole thing. Mickey was surprised that she hadn’t asked what was going on, hadn’t questioned anything. Just watched, just took it all in.

So… Mickey told her. “I was in prison.”

Evelyn took a deep breath, glanced at Jackson for a second, downed the rest of her wine, then carefully set the glass back down on the table before she looked at Mickey again. Mickey was dreading whatever she was going to say, especially when she hesitated, head tilting to the side just a bit.

“Do you mind me asking what for?”

Mickey swallowed hard. Maybe this was the wrong move. This _had_ to be the wrong fucking move, he _just_ met this lady! Fuck. But lying to her —to Jackson’s _mother_ — seemed so goddamn wrong. It seemed so fucked up.

He lost his breath trying to say it out loud, “Att…” Mickey inhaled, blinking a couple times. 

He almost got mad, could feel his body wanting to close up, wanting to build his walls to protect himself. He could feel his mouth want to snarl and tell her to mind her own fucking business. But he put _himself_ in this position, and her son’s new boyfriend just dropped a fucking bomb on her about being in _prison_. Obviously she was going to ask. Jackson squeezed him lightly, murmuring that it was okay.

“Attempted,” he tried again. Shook his head. Shame. There it was, creeping up. Shame, and shame, and more shame. “Attempted murder.” It was quiet. Mickey added, because he felt he should, “It was an accident.”

He didn’t look at her. Kept his eyes on the dark blue table cloth, felt Jackson squeeze his hand again, reassuring him again that it was okay. Mickey wasn’t so sure that it was, because Evelyn wasn’t saying anything, and he couldn’t —fucking _couldn’t_ — raise his head to see what her face looked like right now.

Carefully, Jackson took his hand away; Mickey frowned, finally lifting his head in time to see his boyfriend stand up, switching chairs with Evelyn. Mickey swallowed hard, watching her sit next to him, turning to face him, reaching for his hands. His tattooed hands —he suddenly wished they were plain, suddenly wished that word wasn’t etched into his skin.

“Jackey hasn’t told me any of your personal business, but he did tell me that you had it pretty rough, growing up,” she said. Her voice was like her hands; soft, warm. Motherly. 

Mickey gave a little shrug, but he nodded. He knew he had it rough growing up, but… fuck, _everyone_ had a fucking sad story, didn’t they? He felt a hand on his shoulder; Jackson. He squeezed him gently, ran his fingers through the back of his hair. Mickey wanted to lean into the touch, wanted to stand up and kiss his boyfriend, be held tight. He needed to be weighed down, needed that anchor. But he stayed, letting Evelyn hold onto his hands.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through, but…” she sighed, shaking her head. “This is going to sound corny, but sometimes to get where we’re _supposed_ to be, we have to go through the worst kinds of hell. Doesn’t make it any easier, and it’s not fair. But you're here... and you're  _supposed_ to be here. And I’m looking at the way my son looks at you, and the way you look back at him —and I know I’ve only just met you, but it’s all over your face. You love him. So much.”

His eyes were stinging; he nodded, “Yeah, I do.” The words came out so easy. He didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even have to work to tell her.

“I trust Jackson,” Evelyn said. “He’s been taking care of himself since he was six. Practically raised himself. I wasn’t there for him, so he had to grow up faster than he should’ve.”

“Ma,” Jackson murmured, so softly.

She shook her head at him, saying clearly and honestly, “Jackey, I wasn’t there.” Then she turned back to Mickey, gripping his hands firmly, “Thank you for being so upfront, thank you for telling me. That’s… braver than I could ever be. And I meant it when I said you're supposed to be here. I know I might sound like a crazy old lady, but I feel it -I just know it. I'm just sorry you had to go through what you had to go through to get to here.”

Again, Mickey felt fingers through his hair. His eyes kept stinging, and he felt so fucking embarassed because this was supposed to be a nice dinner, meeting Jackson’s mom, and here he was ripping his guts out and throwing them on the table for everyone to see. And now his boyfriend's mother was sitting here holding his fucking hands like they were at a goddamn church meeting. Real good first impression, asshole. Blubbery ex-con, what a fucking _winner_. He chewed harshly on his bottom lip until Evelyn released his hands, only to reach for his face. 

She smiled wide as she held the sides of his face, all gentle and mom-ish again. He got a flicker of that one time his own mother was sober for a couple days. She made breakfast, held his face, smiled at him. He only had a handful of clear memories about his mother, but that was one of them.

“Now… it’s all behind you, right?”

Mickey nodded, “Yes ma’am. Not going back, not gonna fuck up —shit, sorry… not gonna mess up what I got now.”

Evelyn nodded, smiling at his slip, “ _All_ I care about is that you love Jackson, and you’re good to him —take care of him, keep him _safe_.” Mickey didn’t look away from her eyes as he nodded; a silent promise. She peeked up at Jackson and tilted her head towards Mickey, “He _is_ a _very_ beautiful man.”

Jackson snorted a laugh, “Told you.”

He frowned, glancing up at Jackson quickly when she let go of his face (his dark eyes were a little glassy; soft around the edges). It was over? No more questions —no digging into _why_ he did what he did —no lecture about not hurting her son —no distrusting glares? 

Evelyn got up from the chair, putting her hands on her hips as she looked down at him, “You need a beer, Michael? Or maybe something stronger.”

“Yes,” Mickey nodded, kinda lost, still feeling his stomach tying up in knots. “Please.”

She grinned at him, looking between Mickey and Jackson, “You two look so good together. I’ll go get you a drink, okay? I got just the thing.”

Mickey just kept nodding like a fucking jackass, “Thank you.”

She headed back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder to Jackson, “Jackey baby, you want a beer?”

“Yes, please,” Jackson called back. He sat down in the chair his mother just left and smiled softy at Mickey. “I told you it would be okay.”

Mickey took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. He shook his head, “She’s just… cool with all that shit?”

“She trusts me,” Jackson said. “I trust you. So… she trusts you. All she cares about is that you’re good to me —and you are. Stop with the face, you _are_ —you’re so fucking good to me, babe.”

He let it go, sighing, still a little lost. “But… just like that?” Mickey couldn’t stop shaking his head. “She’s cool with me just like that? That doesn't make any fucking sense.”

Jackson sighed back at him, giving a helpless half-shrug. “Baby, sometimes you get breaks.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re getting one now. Okay?”

Mickey swallowed hard, raking his fingers through his hair. Couldn’t do much else but let his hands fall hard onto his thighs and exhale roughly.

Jackson glanced behind Mickey for a second, then back to him, “Can I kiss you?”

Mickey hesitated for a moment, but nodded. He needed it, needed his boyfriend, needed touch — _something_. Jackson kissed him quick, soft, then hard, whispering into his mouth, “You’re so fucking brave, Mick.” He kissed him again; it felt so good. “I love you.”

More heat in his face, Mickey whispered back, “I love you too.”

Then Jackson broke their kiss off, leaning forward, pressing his lips against Mickey’s ear as he kept his voice low —so low that Mickey barely caught it. “Need something special for being so brave.”

By now, Mickey knew his face was beet fucking red. Only Jackson would do this shit to him in his _mother’s_ house. Jesus. “Jack,” he warned.

His boyfriend ignored him, “I love how brave you are.”

“ _Jackson_ ,” Mickey said again, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. 

Jackson breathed a soft laugh against his ear before he nipped at his earlobe. “Gonna treat you so good tonight, babe. Make you come so hard. You deserve it.”

And… he was getting hard. Fuck. “Shut up. I fucking hate you.”

That time Jackson chuckled louder, kissing the side of his neck, “Lies,” he said before getting up and taking his chair with him to the other side of the table. 

Mickey raised his middle finger at his boyfriend, eyebrows high as he tried to talk himself down from getting a fucking hard on in the middle of dinner with Jackson’s mother. His boyfriend was such a little fucking shit. 

“You know I love to see you squirm,” Jackson winked at him as he settled back down on his chair.

Mickey huffed, shaking his head, “Think I’ve done enough fucking _squirming_ already.”

Then Jackson’s face fell soft, his brown eyes a little wide, “Shit. I’m sorry… I wasn’t thinking. Tryna lighten the mood. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

He gave his boyfriend a lopsided grin; nodded, “S’okay.” Then he paused, head tilting side to side in thought, hesitating before bringing his voice low again, “That offer still on the table though?”

Jackson nodded rather enthusiastically, it was almost comical, “Oh absolutely.”

Mickey grinned wide, feeling warm all over, feeling his shoulders finally relax, “Okay. Okay, good.”

Evelyn came back, setting a short glass in front of Mickey. The liquor was warm amber, almost like maple syrup; a single cube of ice, “Had to go down to the basement to get the good stuff.”

Jackson snorted across the table, “You got a wine cellar down there now?”

Evelyn knocked the back of her hand against Jackson’s shoulder as she set his beer bottle down in front of him, “No, but I happen to have a couple bottles of nice bourbon, so you hush.”

“Well, how come I didn’t get any?”

Mickey grinned at his boyfriend, quirking an eyebrow at him. He almost cracked a joke about not _earning_ it —not being locked up for nine years— but he thought maybe it wasn’t appropriate, so he kept his mouth shut.

“You don’t even like bourbon, Jackey,” Evelyn sighed. 

Mickey took a sip, grunting when it went down smooth like butter. Holy shit that was good. Warmed him up from the inside out. So damn smooth. “Wow,” he breathed, tipping his glass towards Evelyn, “That’s good shit.”

She chuckled, smiling big as she held up her own glass, “It was a gift from a pilot I was seeing a couple years ago.”

Mickey glanced over to Jackson when he heard him make a noise and ask, “When were you dating a pilot?”

Evelyn shrugged, “I didn’t say we _dated_.”

“Ma!” Jackson whined, shaking his head.

Mickey snorted a laugh into his glass, then took another sip.

Evelyn rolled her eyes and smiled at her son before she turned back to Mickey, “Did Jackey do that one?”

He followed her eyeliner to his forearm —the skull and flowers tattooed there. Mickey smirked at the tattoo. He’d just gotten it done recently, but somehow he already forgot sometimes that it was there, like it was already that much a part of him. “Yeah, he did.”

“He always does such good work,” Evelyn smiled fondly at Jackson, then continued, “He’s been drawing since he could hold a pencil —had to repaint his bedroom walls a few times when he was a toddler.”

“Mmhm,” Jackson hummed from across the table.

Mickey smirked, glancing down at his glass of bourbon. Then _just like that_ , everything melted into right where they left off. Evelyn asked more about Yev —how he was in school, all those questions people ask about your kids. Mickey didn’t mind talking about Yev, not anymore. He was proud of his kid, proud he was doing good in school, keeping his nose clean.

Evelyn Young was _good people_. She worked hard, she loved her son, she had a great, infectious laugh. She was just a _mom_. And Mickey found himself really gravitating towards that. Maybe it was because he never had that. His mother was always too high to function, too high to make a joke, or make her children lunches in brown paper bags (from what little he remembered about her; she'd died when he was real young).

If Evelyn would’ve been around when Jackson was growing up, if she hadn’t had to dedicate so much other time to work… shit, Jackson would’ve had the best fucking life.

 

* * *

 

Jackson’s childhood room was simple, kind of small. Mickey was surprised that Evelyn had kept it the way it was —there were a few boxes stacked up in a corner, but he assumed that the rest of it was the same as when Jackson was younger. 

Drawings and posters pinned all over the blue-gray walls. A double bed shoved in a corner —slightly faded green and blue comforter. Desk. Dresser. Really basic, but personal. He could totally see little Jackson in here, drawing at his desk, headphones on.

“Used to be kinda messy,” Jackson said. “Clothes and shit everywhere.”

Mickey grinned over at his boyfriend, stepping deeper into the room, getting a good look around. There were the remnants of stickers climbing up the post of the bed’s headboard, “S’cool.”

Evelyn was in the kitchen cleaning up while Jackson gave Mickey “the tour” —she’d refused help from Mickey, telling him to go relax, telling Jackson to show him around the house. So that left the two of them in Jackson’s old bedroom, standing a few feet from one another, grinning.

Mickey shook his head, seeing that look in his boyfriend’s eye. All mischievous and dark as he took a step towards Mickey. Jackson wet his lips, lifting a brow. Again, Mickey shook his head. “We’re not fucking around in your mom’s house,” he told him.

Jackson’s grin cracked wider. He closed the space between him and Mickey, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close, pulling him tight, “Just make out with me a little.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, cheeks heating up, “This some fantasy shit from when you were a kid?”

Jackson nodded, “Being alone with a hot boy, in my room? Fuck yeah.”

He rolled his eyes, but pressed a kiss to Jackson’s lips, “Idiot,” he murmured.

“You love it,” Jackson murmured back.

He did. And when Jackson kissed him deeper, sucking on his bottom lip, licking into his mouth… it was hard to resist that. Mickey moaned, feeling his back hit a wall, letting himself be caged in against the hard surface. Jackson kissed him hard, hands sliding down to grab his ass, to pull him closer. He’d needed this weight earlier, needed the pressure on his chest, the safeness of being held by Jackson. 

So for right now, he reveled in it. He soaked it up like a sponge, pulling Jackson closer, though there was no more room. Jackson shoved a leg between his, and Mickey breathed hard into the kiss, tasting Jackson’s tongue, shoving his hands into his curls. He needed it. Couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t get that itch scratched.

Shit, not here. Couldn’t do this here, no matter how much Mickey wanted it. Fuck, if it had been anywhere else, and if Evelyn wasn’t just down the hall, clinking dishes together and washing up, Mickey wouldn’t mind being bent over the little bed in the corner at all. If it hadn’t’ve been Evelyn’s house, Mickey would’ve been on his knees already, tugging at his boyfriend’s pants.

“Hold on,” Mickey forced himself to break the kiss off, gently pushing at Jackson’s chest. “Fuck, hold on.”

Immediately, Jackson took half a step back, putting some space between them. Not a lot, but enough, “What’s wrong?”

Mickey shook his head, “Nothing, just… don’t wanna get carried away in your mom’s house.”

Jackson nodded, leaned forward to kiss him one last time, then stepped away, putting some more space between them. Mickey immediately missed the warmth and pressure from his body, but forced his mind away from that, so he could calm down. Both of them grinned at each other; Mickey dragged his eyes down Jackson’s body, then back up to his face. God, he was really something.

Before he could caught up in how good his boyfriend looked, Mickey averted his eyes to cool off, looking around the bedroom again, noting a few pictures taped to the mirror above Jackson’s dresser. He moved closer to the piece of furniture, feeling fingers brush over his wrist as he walked passed Jackson.

Mickey’s heart sunk a little, seeing the pictures. They were small, layers and layers of tape sealing each side to the sheet of mirror. He’d never seen a picture of Katie before, but he knew it was her immediately. Photo-booth pictures that had been cut into neat squares, instead of all lined up on a single strip.

Part of him wondered why it didn’t upset him, seeing Jackson’s younger self cuddled up with this girl. Light hair, big eyes —she had an open-mouthed smile plastered on her face as Jackson kissed her cheek. In another picture, it was the same pose except her eyes were clenched shut while she laughed. How could he be upset over Jackson’s first love? Especially when she was ripped away from him, traumatizing him.

“I always forget those are there,” Jackson’s voice was quiet beside him.

Mickey looked over at him, giving him a small smile, “She’s pretty.”

Jackson nodded, “She was.”

He chewed on his bottom lip for a second, sorting through his words. Fuck, they probably would've gotten hitched, popped out a couple kids. Probably would've gone to college together and all that shit. Jackson probably would've had a whole different life if she hadn't've died. “You know, if you ever wanna talk about her, or something…”

That made Jackson grin a little, reaching out for Mickey’s hand. He didn’t say anything back right away, just held onto Mickey’s hand, slotting their fingers between each other. Jackson leaned over and pressed a simple, soft kiss to Mickey’s lips, like a silent _thank you_. Then he tugged on Mickey’s hand, leading him out of the bedroom, “My mom’s always got a stash of M &M’s in her nightstand, come on.”

Mickey laughed, “Child.”

Jackson responded by sticking his tongue out at him.

 

* * *

 

He was exhausted. And a little sticky from sweat. A good sticky though. Good sweat. His body still hummed, still coming down from getting the holy _hell_ fucked out of him. Mickey grinned to himself, kissing the top of Jackson’s head. He got a face full of curls —frizzy and all over the place, but it was okay. 

They were laid up in bed now. Mickey propped up against the headboard and a couple pillows, Jackson half on top of him, half snuggled into his side, head resting on the tattoo on his chest. His fingers were dragging up and down Mickey’s abdomen, just touching him, petting him. It felt really good. Calming, almost. That hypnotic movement across his skin while being held onto like this. 

Mickey couldn’t remember the last time there was close to nothing on his mind. It almost felt wrong, while at the same time really fucking relaxing. He was just… _there_ , in this moment. With a man who knew pretty much every single thing about him —and despite that, still loved him. And Mickey believed that Jackson loved him, believed that it was real. Because it was. It was real, and good, and right. And everything he needed — _wanted_.

He slid down the bed, turning so that his back was pressed up against Jackson’s front. His boyfriend instantly wrapped his arm around him, pulling him close and tight. Lips feathering over the back of his shoulder, breath ghosting over his skin, into his hair.

“I wasn’t expecting that tonight,” Jackson spoke softly. “You telling my mom so soon.”

Mickey took Jackson’s hand in his own, holding it against his chest as they laid together. “Me neither. Think I shoulda waited?”

“Do _you_ think you should’ve?”

He sighed, shaking his head before turning around in Jackson’s arms, so they could look at each other. Legs tangled, foreheads touching. Mickey murmured, “Couldn’t lie to her. Felt fucked up.”

Jackson gave him a lopsided, soft grin, “Well, I think she appreciated you being upfront like that. And, I mean, you don’t have to stress over that shit anymore, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. He did have a point there. “Still hard to believe that she’s just… okay with that shit.”

“Told you, sometimes people get breaks,” Jackson whispered.

“Told you that I don’t,” Mickey countered. 

Jackson sighed, “Maybe you’re owed a couple, then. Maybe the universe is looking at you and going _you know what? that guy deserves a break or two_.” Mickey breathed a laugh, reaching up to card his fingers through his boyfriend’s curls as he added, “There’s no other shoe that’s gonna drop, Mick. Just trust it, okay? Trust _me_.”

“I do trust you,” Mickey breathed.

“Good,” Jackson gave him a soft peck of a kiss.

Mickey hummed, scooting closer to his boyfriend so that the front of their bodies were pressed together, limbs tangling even more. He kissed Jackson soft, just a few times until he got a smile out of him. He dropped the doubt, was letting himself trust Jackson’s words. Maybe his boyfriend was right. Maybe the universe was throwing him a bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn looks like Sally Field, circa 1996
> 
> Also, BIG thanks for Kerri for giving me advice on this chapter, you're amazing babes :)))


	17. Popscicle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen..... there's smut. I'm not gonna give it away, but... smut.  
> Also, a light edit.

There was nothing better than cutting into a rare steak. Mickey hummed to himself and grinned, hearing Jackson’s little laugh at him from across the table. The waiter came by, refilling their wine glasses for them, even though either one of them could’ve reached over to the bucket thing and grabbed the bottle. Mickey can’t remember the last time he had wine… if he _ever_ had wine (that wasn’t from a box, at least; he vaguely remembers stealing some of his aunt’s when he was around Yev’s age, or maybe it was a wine cooler —whatever).

“Shit’s still fucking _breathing_ ,” Jackson said from across the table.

Mickey grinned wide as he chewed, then replied with, “S’how big boys order their steak,” after he swallowed. He winked at Jackson for an extra little dig.

Jackson’s jaw dropped a little, but he smiled, “Medium-well is perfectly acceptable—”

“The fact that you have to defend your steak is proving my point,” Mickey teased.

“Dick,” Jackson kicked Mickey’s shin under the table.

Mickey grinned as he reached for his wine glass, taking a sip. He liked it better than he thought he would, actually. Felt kind of fancy too, with his button-down shirt, and nice pants, sitting across from his boyfriend who looked _so_ fucking good. Shit, when Mickey first saw what Jackson was wearing, he had a hard time not asking to cancel dinner reservations and go straight to the hotel.

Jackson always looked good. Even late at night when he had sweatpants on, frizzy curls and glasses perched on the end of his nose, he looked good. But tonight he’d traded in his casual t-shirts and jeans for nice tan pants and a white button-down under a long dark coat. Looked like one of those fuckers in a magazine. Mickey thought about all those tattoos on his boyfriends body, hidden under the nice clothes (except for the lettering on his hand), and he got a little tightness in his chest —a little watery in his mouth.

Then Mickey realized he was staring, fork in one hand, knife in the other. Just staring at Jackson, who was staring right back at him, a little smile playing at his lips. Slightly smug, because he caught Mickey red-handed. Fuck, he was beautiful.

He cleared his throat, looking back down at his plate, cutting into his steak again, “Here,” he said, dropping a piece of his steak onto Jackson’s plate. “Try it.”

Jackson paused, glancing down at the meat. He made a face, then looked back up at Mickey, “It’s bleeding.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and snorted, “Just put it in your fucking mouth, Jackson.”

That got a pretty loud laugh out of the other man; an older woman looked over at their table, her wrinkly face contorted into a mixture of curiosity and irritation. Mickey smiled at her, and gave her a little wave. Ol’ bitch.

“That how you gonna sweet-talk me all night?” Jackson asked, piercing the piece of meat with his fork. “Just put it in your fucking mouth?”

Mickey tilted his head, “If you’re lucky.”

Jackson nodded, “Okay,” and then popped the bite of steak into his mouth. 

He loved it.

The rest of dinner went by slow, but not in a bad way —it was chill; the whole atmosphere surprisingly relaxing despite the luxe of it all. It was nice, sitting across from Jackson, easy conversation, fancy wine, low lighting. They were left alone, for the most part. The waiter only came by once to ask how their food was, and if they needed anything. Mickey was appreciative for the space. Being in a restaurant like this in the heart of the city, around all these people with money he could only dream about… it felt a little odd at first, but with Jackson there, he felt better. Even with his knuckle tattoos, and his boots, he felt like he faded into the background. And that’s all he could really ask for.

“So did you figure it out?” Jackson asked him.

Mickey shook his head, “Nah —you gonna tell me?”

Jackson leaned back in his seat, “It’s a couple different things. First, a few days ago was six months since we first had breakfast together.”

Mickey let his eyes roll a little, “Wow, you’re going all out for a six-month anniversary?”

Jackson went pink in his cheeks, “ _No…_ it’s just an add-on. Asshole.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, leaning back in his seat as well. He pushed his right foot forward a little until the toe of his shoe bumped against Jackson’s shoe, “A’ight, a’ight… so what else?”

That time, Jackson hesitated, taking a deep breath, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “Uh… tomorrow is a year since you… you know, got out.”

That time, Mickey’s brows climbed high on his forehead, “Is it?”

Jackson nodded, “Yeah.”

Fuck. A whole year? “How’d you know?”

Jackson shrugged a little, his voice careful as he answered, “I asked Svetlana.”

Mickey nodded, reaching for his wine glass. He nodded again, then downed the rest of it before looking at Jackson again, “Damn.”

He thought maybe he should’ve known his release date. Maybe he should’ve had a bigger reaction to the news —the fact that Jackson set up this whole date because of that. But he didn’t really know what to feel, it was just so fucking surreal. A year ago he got out of prison —after being in prison for _nine_  fucking years? Holy shit. Had it really been that long? Had it really been _ten years_ since he was thrown into that cell? Wow.

“Is this… okay?” Jackson asked. The uncertainty was so prevalent in his voice, it nearly made Mickey want to get up from his seat to go to him. “I’m just, I dunno, I’m proud of you.”

Mickey sat up in his seat, elbows on the table as he leaned forward. He took a second to look at his boyfriend again —Jackson was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, arms coming to fold over his chest. Clearly rethinking this whole night, probably internally scolding himself for all of this.

And then Evelyn’s words fluttered in the back of his mind — _sometimes to get to where you’re supposed to be, you have to go through the worst kinds of hell_. And right then is where it really sank in. Mickey was supposed to be right here, with Jackson. Everything that lead up to this moment… everything he’d ever been through. All that bad shit —all the good, too. It got him to where he was supposed to be. Supposed to be with Jackson, supposed to be in this chair, in this restaurant, looking across this table at this man. This fucking amazing man with wild hair and dark eyes, that looked at Mickey like he was the whole fucking universe. Took a long time to get to this moment. Took a long time to feel this. 

So, is this okay? Yeah. Yeah, this was okay. Made Mickey feel warm inside, made him want to be proud of himself too. Made him want to do better, _be_ better. Jackson loved him. Mickey felt that. Felt his love, felt loved. _Genuinely_ loved. Jackson did all this for him; just him.

Mickey tilted his head up a little, gesturing for Jackson to sit up too. He did, mirroring Mickey’s position of elbows on the table, leaning forward.

“C’mere,” he murmured. Fuck everyone else in the restaurant who had something to fucking say. Let them look. Let them think whatever the fuck they wanted to think.

Jackson’s shoulders visibly relaxed before he grinned wide at Mickey and leaned further across the table. Mickey met him halfway. It was simple and soft. Mouths pressing against each other, Mickey whispering a simple, “Thank you,” before they sat back in their seats again.

A year seemed like it went by so fast. It was kind of hard to believe, kind of hard to process that for the past six months, he’d been with Jackson. And then of course, that little voice in the back of his head… were they moving too fast? Was six months too fast to fall for someone so _wholly_ like Mickey had? Maybe. But it felt so fucking right; felt natural. He trusted Jackson, and that was everything. He was _supposed_ to be here.

 

* * *

 

Mickey had only seen hotels like this in movies. Big lobbies with marble floors, gold plated name tags, and some stuffy old motherfucker playing one of those shiny pianos —they even had some scrawny looking kid take their bags up to the room ahead of them. 

It didn’t feel as intimate as the restaurant did. He felt more exposed here, more out of place —even though both him and Jackson were dressed up nice, and Jackson had reached over to brush his fingers against Mickey’s wrist… he still felt that uncomfortable heat on the back of his neck, reminding him that this was so far out of his wheelhouse it wasn’t funny. Anyone could save up money and go to a fancy restaurant. But hotels like _this_? Fuck. He wouldn’t’ve been surprised if hotels like this demanded a credit check.

He barely paid attention when Jackson checked them in, too focused on taking in every inch of wealth that dripped down the walls of the building, how every hair was in place on top of the receptionist’s head. Was Jackson secretly rich or something? In the last six months did Mickey miss something here?

And then Jackson’s hand was slipping into his, tugging on him gently, pulling him from his thoughts. Mickey raised his brows at his boyfriend, “Huh?”

“You wanna go to the bar before we head up?” Jackson asked. “Nightcap —get a whiskey in you?”

Mickey shrugged, “Sure.”

The hotel bar was just as nice as the rest of the place. Dim lights, low jazz, and all. There was only one bartender, and barely anyone around. The whole hotel was kind of empty, Mickey noticed. Must have been a slow day —or season, whatever the fuck, Mickey didn't know how all that shit worked. He was glad there weren’t a lot of people around. The bar felt more intimate than the lobby did, that way.

“Booth or bar?” Jackson asked.

Again, Mickey shrugged, “This is your night, Romeo.”

“Hmm,” Jackson got a wide smirk on his face as he let go of Mickey’s hand, turning and walking backwards as he spoke, “Bar it is.”

Mickey followed his boyfriend to the end of the bar like a lost puppy, settling up next to him on a stool. Jackson had one elbow leaning on the bar, head propped up by his fist, looking at Mickey with a little mischievous smirk. Mickey looked back at him while he leaned both of his elbows on top of the bar, sighing softly when Jackson ran his hand up and down his back. Felt good.

“You okay?” Jackson asked. He waved over the bartender. “You got all quiet on me.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said. He hesitated, not wanting to come off as an ass, “it’s just… this place is…”

“It’s a lot, I know,” Jackson nodded.

The bartender came over —took orders, handed over drinks, took money from Jackson— and just like that he was gone again, leaving Mickey and Jackson to themselves again.

He felt like a fucking idiot, but the words were spewing out of his mouth before he could stop himself, “You secretly rich, or some shit?”

Jackson choked on his drink, coughing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; he croaked out a strained, “What?”

Mickey shook his head, looking around the bar again, watching the bartender wipe down glasses at the other end, far out of earshot, “The restaurant… this fucking hotel… just don’t want you blowing all this cash on me, man.”

His boyfriend paused, like he was processing Mickey’s question. He reached over, taking Mickey’s hand in his own, holding him tight, “I had some extra cash for dinner tonight, from taking on some of Omar’s clients,” he told him. “And… at the risk of killing the mood, I’m not paying a dime for the hotel. One of Benny’s sisters is the GM of this place. They had a few rooms empty tonight —they’re slow right now, so I asked Benny if he’d sweet-talk her into letting us take a room for a night.”

And just like that, it was like all he tension bled from Mickey’s back. He felt dumb for asking about the money. “Okay,” he nodded.

Jackson grinned, “And for the record, I’m not secretly rich. I'd've moved me and my mom outta South Side a long time ago if I was.”

Mickey chuckled, still nodding his head, “Okay.” It wouldn’t have really mattered if he was anyway, but still there was a part of Mickey that was kind of glad his boyfriend wasn’t some kind of hidden rich guy, sitting on mountains of cash. Would’ve felt weird.

“We good now?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” Jackson smiled wide at him. “For the record though, I wouldn’t be blowing money on you anyways. Wouldn’t be wasted. You deserve this.”

Heat in his face, Mickey rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his drink before he changed the subject. “So, how’s work been?”

Jackson sighed, “Not mad at the new clients, but Omar’s taking it pretty fucking hard with this arthritis bullshit. I dunno how long he’s going to be able to put out his best work. I know if he can’t put out his best work, he’s gonna give it up. Sucks.”

“Fuck,” Mickey shook his head. What fucking nightmare for someone who depended on their hands like that. Omar was a good guy too, and one hell of an artist. Old age was a fucking bitch. A merciless fucking bitch.

“Yeah,” Jackson nodded. “Hard watching him go through this too —downing anti-inflammatories, seeing him cramp up. He’s been tattooing is his whole life, you know? He’s been doing this shit since he was sixteen —hell, his _dad_ was in the business for like fifty years or some shit. Omar put his life savings into opening the shop.”

“Not much you can do besides pop those pills, huh?”

Jackson shrugged. “I dunno. Told him to go to a fucking doctor and get some good meds, instead of that over-the-counter shit. Maybe they can give him a few more years before his work starts really slipping, you know?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. He still gonna run the shop if he can’t work?”

“Think so,” Jackson swirled his drink a little around his glass. “He always joked around about giving it to me and Benny, but I dunno. He doesn’t have kids… kinda the end of his family line, no one else to give it to there.”

Mickey could tell his boyfriend didn’t really want to talk about this anymore, was closing up a little —shoulders all tense and shit. Omar’s hands going bad was affecting him more than he was letting on. The guy was Jackson’s mentor —gave him a second chance of getting his life together after he got out of jail all those years ago. He was kind of like a father-figure to him, honestly. Had to be tough to watch. 

He reached over and slid his hand over the top of Jackson’s thigh, squeezing him gently, getting his attention, “Hey.”

Jackson looked over at him, a little smirk, “Sup?”

“Thanks for all this shit tonight,” Mickey said, squeezing him again. “Didn’t have to do this, but I appreciate it. For real. S’nice.”

“Yeah?” Jackson’s smirk got wider as he turned a little in his seat, facing Mickey more.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah —I don’t think I’ve ever even really stayed at a hotel before.”

“Really?” Jackson arched a brow at him. He had heat in his eyes, all mischievous and shit. Mickey loved that. Made his stomach go all fluttery, because he knew what that look meant. “So you’ve never had hotel sex.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, “Hotel sex?”

Jackson nodded, “Oh baby, you’re in for a treat.”

He was going warm all over. Jackson’s voice got all low when he said that, his dark eyes searching Mickey’s face, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Promises, promises. “Oh yeah?”

Jackson leaned close when Mickey turned his body to face him, their knees touching now. When he felt his boyfriend’s lips ghost the top of his cheek, his hot breath wash over the side of his face, Mickey thought his body trembled just a little. Then his lips moved further, breathing against Mickey’s ear as one of his hands reached for Mickey’s thigh —like Mickey had done to Jackson just moments ago. Jackson’s touch wasn’t supposed to be comforting though, it was much more intimate; a little higher on Mickey’s thigh, fingers pressing deeper; drawing breath out of Mickey’s lungs, making his mouth water —that time Mickey _knew_ he trembled.

“Why don’t you finish your drink so I can show you,” Jackson suggested.

Mickey downed the rest of his bourbon in one go.

 

* * *

 

There was something about the elevator that made Mickey take the ball out of Jackson’s court, bringing it to his own. He needed it, needed to show Jackson how fucking special all this was, how good he made him feel. They were closed off in this little box —a heavy silence engulfing them except for the soft electronic dings when they passed a floor. Climbing up towards their destination. He’d heard the receptionist say sixteen. 

Mickey sighed as he backed his boyfriend up against the back wall as soon as the doors closed, taking the other man off guard. He pressed his forehead against Jackson’s, wet his lips when he elicited a small surprised sound from he other man. His hands grabbed at Jackson’s sides as he breathed heavy against his lips, all quiet, so quiet, didn't need to talk for this, just needed to touch and feel, and _be_.

He felt Jackson tense against him, tense and melt at the same time, felt him start to grow hard when he moved his leg between his, pushing against him. Jackson gasped for breath as Mickey kissed him. He kissed his boyfriend hard, fingers digging into his hips, groaning soft when he felt Jackson’s arms wrap around his neck, felt his body arch back and pull him closer, felt him give himself over to him. Just like that. Instant. Because Jackson trusted him like that, opened himself up to him like that. _Wanted_ him like that. Fuck. 

Mickey broke the kiss off, eyes closed tight as he pressed their foreheads together again; he breathed hard, deep breaths. Jackson still held onto him, his own heavy breath colliding with Mickey’s. He wanted him right here and now, wanted him so bad that his bones ached.

“God, I love your fucking mouth,” Jackson’s voice was ten kinds of fucked when he whispered that.

Mickey grinned, knowing his face was getting a little flushed from the comment; he slipped one hand between them, cupping Jackson through his pants. They had to be close to their floor already. “That right?”

“Yeah, that’s fucking right,” Jackson whispered. His hands slid to hold Mickey’s face, moving so they could look at each other while Mickey continued to work him through his pants. 

His thumbs brushed over Mickey’s bottom lip, eyes trained on his mouth. Maybe years ago this would’ve made Mickey feel too much —or feel too exposed. Someone looking at him the way Jackson did, at his mouth. Not now though. Fuck that. He parted his lips just enough to let the tip of one of Jackson’s thumbs slip into his mouth, closing around the digit; sucked softly, pushed his tongue against his boyfriend’s thumb, tasting him.

This little moan spilled from Jackson’s lips and his eyes fluttered closed. Mickey smirked,releasing the thumb so he could press forward to kiss his panting boyfriend one last time before the final electronic ding rang, and the elevator came to a halt. Jackson chased his mouth when Mickey leaned away, breaking the kiss.

Whether it was the bourbon, or just a natural high that came from being with Jackson, Mickey found himself softly laughing with his boyfriend as they made their way down the quiet hallway towards the room. Jackson kept pushing Mickey against walls, kissing him hard, kissing him soft, saying these things to him that made his stomach flutter like a fucking virgin. If someone passed them in the hallway, Mickey didn’t notice, didn’t even care. Neither one of them did.

Jackson called him beautiful — _fucking beautiful_. Told him that over and over again, mouths pressed tight against each other, breath hot and wet. Mickey soaked it all in like a sponge. He buried his fingers into dark curls when his back was pushed against their rooms’ door, pulling at the strands while Jackson fished the keycard out of his pocket. He couldn’t stop kissing him, couldn’t stop breathing him in. The skin around his mouth burned sweetly from the scratchy stubble on Jackson’s face. Rubbed raw; Mickey loved it.

They tumbled through the door, almost falling over. Mickey got his turn to push Jackson against a wall then, not bothering to get a look around the room. He took his boyfriends wrists into his hands and pinned them above his head as he kissed him hard, sucking on that bottom lip, drawing out a broken moan from the other man. He shoved his knee between Jackson’s legs, pushing against him, moving against him slow while they kissed. 

Then he got to Jackson’s neck, kissing and biting and sucking at the flesh, tasting every bit of him. He released his wrists, going for the belt instead, intent of getting these fucking nice pants off of his boyfriend so he could taste him everywhere else.

“Fuck,” Jackson breathed, tugging at Mickey’s hair —tugging at the buttons of his shirt. “Keep doing that — _fuck_ …”

Mickey bit softly at Jackson’s neck again. Bit and sucked as he shoved his hand down the front of his pants, feeling how fucking _hard_ his boyfriend was, wrapping his fingers around him, still working on his neck. Jackson was so hard, and he was hard for _him_ , wanted _him_ , and Mickey groaned low at that, feeling his own body heat up and tighten everywhere. Fuck, he loved this guy. He wanted this guy more than anything, more than air at this point.

It was a battle. Mickey got Jackson to moan and sag against him before Jackson turned the tables and all of a sudden had Mickey’s shirt off, mouth dragging over his collarbone as he pushed Mickey to the bed. He worked his mouth down Mickey’s chest, tongue dragging after him, kissing and biting at his nipples. Mickey shivered, arching into him.

They went back and forth, smirking at each other while they tried to get the upper hand on each other. Soft words, firm hands, pieces of clothes stripped off one by one. Tasting every bit of each other, exploring. Mickey kissed and marked around the cluster of roses on Jackson’s hip, had gripped under his thighs while they moved against each other, kissing deep, drawing it out. They had all night.

But then Jackson got Mickey to surrender in the end. Pants tugged off and thrown somewhere else in the room, boxers following suit. Mickey gasped loud, gasped hard when his boyfriend’s mouth —hot and wet, fucking _sinful_ — eased down his erection. He was nothing but a useless lump in the middle of the bed, hand reaching down to card his fingers through Jackson’s hair, watching dark eyes peer back up at him, reddened lips wrapped tightly around him. What a fucking view.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispered. It was hard to keep his eyes open, but he forced himself to anyways. His hips tipped up, softly thrusting into Jackson’s mouth. When Jackson moaned low around him, Mickey’s eyes rolled, more shivers rolling through his body. It was so good, Jackson was so fucking good, felt so good. 

Jackson slid off of him, placing wet hot kisses to Mickey’s inner thighs, nipping at his skin, “Taste so fucking good,” he was saying. 

And then he was working his way up Mickey’s body again, lavishing his stomach with kisses and light suck-marks. Mickey tried to reach down to touch him more, to pull him up so they could kiss more —wanted to taste himself on his boyfriend’s tongue. But Jackson kept gently pushing his hands away, a silent queue telling Mickey to keep his arms relaxed on the bed, to just take everything he was giving to him. So he did, knowing that Jackson was seriously in for it later tonight.

By the time Jackson had reached his mouth, Mickey was breathless and his body moved and fidgeted under Jackson’s touch on it’s own accord. He moaned again when Jackson wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking him gently while his lips dropped painfully soft kisses against Mickey’s sensitive, rubbed-raw mouth.

“I bought something for tonight,” Jackson told him. “Think you’ll like it.”

Mickey chased his boyfriend’s mouth, needing more, needing his lips and tongue to properly take him again. “Bought what?”

“Something fun.”

He groaned through a laugh, eyes rolling back when Jackson moved his kisses to his jaw and neck, moving back to his ear. “C’mon, tell me,” Mickey whined low. 

He was trying to distract himself from how good Jackson’s hand felt —keep the little conversation going, keep his mind from floating away too far away, from coming quicker than he wanted to. Wanted this to last. God, that man knew how to fucking jerk a cock, didn’t he? Jesus. He knew exactly how to touch Mickey. _Exactly_.

Mickey felt Jackson smile wide against his neck, felt a soft puff of air from his laugh, “Wanna make you fucking yell for me, Mick.” His thumb slid over the head of his cock, and Mickey just about bit through his bottom lip, trying to control himself. “I hope you like it —make you so fucking loud; wanna hear you.”

He sighed, eyes clenching, skin fluttering from the hot breath against his ear, from anticipation, “Fuck, I need you.”

“I know baby,” Jackson breathed hotly again. “Fucking shaking.”

Mickey could feel him hard and leaking against his hip, moving against him. He moved as best he could, sliding his arm under Jackson, wapping around his middle, holding him tight as he turned his head to kiss him again, his other hand diving into his hair. Jackson moaned, and Mickey kissed him harder, swallowing up the sound, tugging on his boyfriend’s curls. His jaw, his lips, his cheeks… everything was sweetly achy, but fuck all of that. Let his mouth be raw in the morning. Let his face sting for hours. Fuck it all, he wanted to kiss this man for fucking ever.

“Please,” Mickey rasped into Jackson’s mouth. All breath and want, it just came out, the easy plea, needing Jackson —wanting him so fucking much. 

He was getting caught up, getting lost between where he started and Jackson ended. They moved and breathed together. They arched and bended, moaned, pressed, kissed, sucked. Slick and gentle as Jackson opened him up, loving kisses on the back of his shoulders, behind his ears, the back of his neck. In his low, heated voice, Jackson told Mickey what he bought. The hairs on the back of his neck, a shudder running through him when he pictured the scene his boyfriend painted for him.

Then Mickey was clenching sheets in his fists, front pressed against the mattress, boyfriend draped over his back while he pressed inside of him. With Jackson’s hands sliding up his arms, fingers slipping between his own, holding him down while he breathed against the back of Mickey’s neck, he shuddered. He shuddered like he forgot about that, how much he loved that hand-holding, something anchoring him through it. Everything else faded away and it was just Mickey and Jackson in that room, in that bed. Jackson holding his hands, his weight letting Mickey know everything that wasn’t being said.

It was like slow-motion. It was like honey. Warm, slow honey. Mickey got all static in his head, taking deep breaths as his boyfriend took him like this. The weight of Jackson covering his back, his warm breath, the soft words. Scraping teeth against his ear, deep thrust of his hips; Mickey moved against him, pushing back, arching, wanting more.

That was the first time. 

Though there were no _I love you_ ’s, not facing each other, no eye contact, not even speaking… the fucking _intensity_. The _warmth_ Mickey felt in the pit of his gut, climbing up his throat. He felt safe and loved and all that ooey-gooey bullshit that made him simultaneously roll his eyes and smile bigger than he ever did, because Mickey _loved_ that shit. Being loved? Fuck, that was it. That was the best fucking feeling.

And then after, when they were catching their breath and cleaning up, they laid together. All legs and arms, painfully soft kisses against tender mouths. Mickey rubbed his cheek against Jackson’s chest, listening to his heart beat. The bed was comfortable —nice ass sheets too. It was fucking perfect. He didn't want to leave, didn’t want to escape this perfect little bubble.

For just a second, he finally looked around the room. Like straight out of a movie. The big ass windows overlooking the city —twinkle lights and shit. The neutral tones of the room, white bedsheets, dimmed table lamps. Mickey didn’t put too much stock into material things, but this was something special. This whole night was something really fucking special.

Jackson carded his fingers through the back of his hair, softly he said, “I got something for you.”

Mickey smirked, turning his head to kiss Jackson’s chest, “Ten more minutes, I’ll be good.”

When Jackson chuckled, Mickey felt his chest vibrate low, fingers twisting softly in his hair. His other hand drifted over to the nightstand —Mickey couldn’t remember when his boyfriend had the time to put anything in there, but he craned his neck a little to see what Jackson was up to.

“I mean an _actual_ something,” he told Mickey. 

His throat went a little dry, seeing Jackson pull out a little white box. Looked like a jewelry box, but not a ring box. But… still a jewelry box. He’d seen rings in boxes like those. Rings. All Mickey could think about were rings now, and circles. Hundreds, thousands of circles. Of rings. Just dancing around him. Jackson wouldn’t… it’s not time —fuck, Mickey wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to go through that again. Svetlana had brought up divorce papers a week or so ago… could that have… no, Jackson wouldn’t fucking do that. He wouldn’t—

“Mick,” Jackson’s voice ripped him back to earth, a lopsided smile on his gorgeous face. Some time between Jackson pulling the box out of the nightstand, and this very moment, Mickey had sat up, putting a little space between them. 

He swallowed hard, unable to look away from the white box in Jackson’s hand, “Listen…”

His boyfriend smiled all wide at him, wider than he ever had. He laughed, “Babe, I’m not purposing to you.”

He let out a heavy breath, feeling his shoulders relax a little, feeling stupid as fuck but feeling like the elephant had stepped off of his chest, “I… didn’t think you—”

“You fucking liar,” Jackson teased. “What’s wrong, babe —don’t wanna marry me —don’t wanna have my babies?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey wet his lips as he settled next to Jackson. Shoulder to shoulder, peering over at the box. “Can’t just whip out a box like that outta nowhere, Romeo.”

Jackson tilted his head from side to side, flipping the box between his fingers, “Don’t wanna marry me one day? You ever think about… that shit? Future shit.”

This could potentially be a can of worms, Mickey knew that. Could be a real problem. He didn’t know what to say. He stumbled over his words for a second, “I just… I don’t know if I wanna get married again.” He looked over at Jackson, seeing that wide smile threaten to slip, just barely, so quick he almost missed it. Should have shut his mouth, should have just stopped there, but it was coming out before he could stop, “Piece of paper, right? Paper doesn't mean shit —doesn’t fucking last.”

Jackson breathed a small laugh, leaning over to kiss Mickey’s jaw as he slipped the box into his hand, “Only been six months. I love you, but I’m not asking for that.” The way he said it, Mickey didn’t need that last word Jackson had purposefully left out. That _yet_. Jackson wouldn’t push him —he never pushed him. But that silent yet lingered in the air. Maybe in another six months, hell maybe in a year or two. But Mickey knew right then it was coming. He knew that for sure.

However, right this second was certainly not the time to think about it. Call it a dumbass fucking move, but future Mickey would have to deal with that when the time came. Because currently… as much as he loved Jackson, and was all in… that? _Marriage_? He really didn’t know if he had it in him. What was the point?

Not the time, Mickey reminded himself. Don't fuck this night up. Just don’t.

He looked down at the box, chewing on his bottom lip as he opened it up. And it was just a key. A simple silver key, just sitting there. Nothing circular, nothing even resembling a ring at all. A fucking key. He breathed slow, relieved. Just a key.

“Not asking you to move in, either,” Jackson murmured close to Mickey’s ear. His breath tickled; Mickey grinned, taking the key out. “S’like a… giving you my other popsicle.”

Mickey quirked an eyebrow at Jackson, “Your other popsicle?”

“Yeah,” Jackson nodded. “You know, they come in two’s. Break ‘em apart, share with a friend. Wanna share with you —share my space, whenever you want. This okay?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, reaching for the back of Jackson’s neck, pulling him closer to kiss him. He kissed him brief but sure, punctuating his words, “Yeah, it’s okay. Thanks for uh… sharing your fucking popsicle with me.”

Jackson hummed happily against his mouth, then grabbed the key from his hand. “Gonna put this on your keyring,” he said, getting out of bed, bare-ass and all.

Mickey rolled his eyes at his naked boyfriend, “So that what we are?”

“Huh?” Jackson asked, digging through Mickey’s pants pockets until he found what he was looking for.

“Friends,” Mickey said, teasing the other man. He’d meant it as a joke, but somewhere in the last two seconds it became a little deeper than that. Sure, they were boyfriends but… that was different. There was a difference. “That’s what you said, break ‘em apart, share with a friend. We friends?”

Jackson paused, giving Mickey an odd look, “You’re my friend, am I yours?”

Mickey nodded. Jackson was probably his _best_ friend, is he were being honest. Didn’t have a lot of friends ever in his life. Even in prison, when he did have friends, he could never put his whole trust in them. But Jackson? Fuck, this guy knew Mickey inside and out. Mickey gave him all he had —not just his heart, not just love. But his life, all the bad shit, he just… let Jackson in like that. Like a best friend would.

Kind of hard not to smile at that. Especially when Jackson jumps back in bed, slinking under the covers quickly, looking at Mickey with those dark moon eyes, telling him that he loved him. Then Mickey pulls him in for more kisses, because he loves him too. Deeper this time, deeper until his body wakes back up, ready for more.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck, c’mere.”

Mickey had almost gotten Jackson there. He could tell, he’d been two seconds away from coming before reaching down to grab at Mickey’s hair, pulling his head up. Mickey groaned, only half-heartedly frustrated, because his boyfriend tasted so fucking good, felt so good stretching out his jaw like that. And of course when Jackson begged him to look at him, wanting to see his eyes —made him feel all sorts of warm and wanted. Made him feel good. Mickey liked that. Liked making Jackson feel good, liked tasting him and swallowing him down. 

Not yet though. Jackson had plans of his own, which didn’t include finishing before they’d even started playing with the thing that he’d bought special for Mickey, for tonight. Mickey licked the taste of his boyfriend off of his lips, following where Jackson was pulling him, sucking down steady breaths until Jackson’s mouth crashed on his own and he was pulled properly into his lap, their erections pressing together, sliding against each other from Mickey’s spit.

Mickey laughed roughly against Jackson’s mouth, “Worked the fuck up, huh?”

“Know I love that mouth,” Jackson grabbed his ass hard, bringing him closer.

It wasn’t like slow-motion. Wasn’t like warm honey. It was like a fucking hurricane. Grabbing hands and biting teeth, moving bodies. Jackson pressed with sure fingers, pressed hard and quick with more lube. Mickey’s eyes rolled back the same time his hips rolled, riding and clinging on, steadying himself. Mickey loved his boyfriend’s hands. Loved his perfect fingers, and how they made him nearly come just from pressure and perfect placement.

Jackson swallowed up Mickey’s moans. Mickey wrapped his arms around him, scratched down his back, earning his own moans from the other man. Jackson shivered under him, then moved. Still quick and sure, like the hurricane they became. 

Then Mickey was back to where he was before. Chest on the bed, ass in the air; short, dull fingernails scratched down his back, grabbed at his ass. Jesus. 

“Perfect, fucking _perfect_ ,” Jackson whispered.

Mickey reached back for Jackson’s hip, reached for anything he could hold onto, just to have his hand pushed away, pushed back to where it was; Mickey grinned against the sheets. Then the grin dropped at the sound of the crinkle of wrapper, the dull press, the pressure. Grin turned into an open-mouth silent yell, turned into a harsh gasp, turned into rolling eyes and shuddering skin.

Jackson gave it to him hard. Gripping hands and all, skin on skin. That slap, that sound, those grunts filling up the room. Just that alone, just the noises they made, were enough to get Mickey even more fucking turned on, even closer to that uninhibited space of not giving any kind of fucks. He pushed back, meeting his boyfriend thrust for thrust. Harder, faster, more. More and more and more until Jackson stilled them, hands curls roughly around Mickey’s hips.

Mickey pressed his forehead against the mattress, listening to his boyfriend’s heavy breathing behind him. Everything was tingly and static, feeling red-hotand exhausted and oddly energized all at once. Fuck, he was aching for it; his throat was scratchy and dry, but he needed more, body humming for it.

A hand smoothed up and down his back, then both of Jackson’s hands, rubbing his skin, gently rocking into him again. Touching all the right places inside; Mickey bit his bottom lip hard, stifling the cry that was trying to work out of his throat.

But one of those hands slipped up his body, coming around, touching his mouth. Jackson sounded so fucked as he murmured, “Wanna hear you.”

Mickey groaned loud as he opened his mouth, sucking Jackson’s fingers inside, pushing back onto him slow. He’d never felt more like a slut, and he never fucking loved it more than right then and there. He grinned; laughed around Jackson’s fingers before he sucked them down again. Could guys be sluts? Fuck it. Not fucking important. 

He kept at it, fucking himself on Jackson slow, sucking on his fingers like a damn cock. And he gave Jackson what he wanted, loud as hell, messy and on fucking fire. Fuck literally everything else in the world. He understood _exactly_ what hotel sex was in that moment. 

Or he thought he had, until his boyfriend was moving again, telling him to stay where he was, leaving him empty for just a moment. The anticipation crept up on Mickey, heartbeat loud in his chest, in his ears, as he waited, hearing shuffling behind him, the snap of the lube bottle —the soft sighs and even softer words of praise from Jackson. Just little ones — _fucking perfect_ , and that sort of thing. He loved saying that. Still made Mickey feel all light and warm. Made him reach down to wrap his hand around himself. Leaking all over the place, hard as a fucking rock.

“Not yet,” Jackson said, easing Mickeys hand off of himself.

So, Mickey had never seen one of these things in person before. Looked bulky —the hard outer shell of it big and plastic. Mickey was sitting up on his knees with Jackson behind him, arms coming around in front to show Mickey, to guide his hand over the soft top part, guiding his fingers to dip inside —all slicked up and tight. He’d always thought shit like this was for guys who couldn’t get laid; never thought to add it into _actual_ fucking.

Jackson breathed hot against his ear as he spoke, “Tight, right?”

Mickey nodded, slipping his fingers out of the toy, “You used one of these before?”

“Not like this,” Jackson told him, breath ticking his neck as he dropped kisses and licks. “You wanna stop, let me know, okay? Don’t wanna do anything you’re uncomfortable with—”

“M’good,” Mickey breathed, letting his head fall back on Jackson’s shoulder, turning to give him more room. “Wanna do this. Don’t stop.”

Jackson groaned low, like a growl, as he latched onto Mickey’s neck. He sucked hard; Mickey’s whole body went like jelly for a second, unable to support himself on his knees anymore, he slowly let himself sink forward, letting his boyfriend situate him. Hands and knees, close enough to the headboard if he needed to reach up and grab on to that. Pretty perfect set-up.

And then it started again. Jackson pushing inside of him, fucking him slow at first, then faster. Harder. He practically begged Mickey to _not_ be quiet, and Mickey gave him exactly what he wanted. Let it out, rough and low and needy, he let it all out.

But he got louder, like Jackson said he would. It went from Jackson fucking hard into him, to Jackson reaching around with the toy, holding it for Mickey as he held deep inside. Helping Mickey adjust himself to push into the slick tightness. It was odd at first, then his eyes rolled back hard when he pushed all the way in. Jackson buried inside of him, while he was buried inside of this… thing. This wonderful fucking toy that almost felt a hundred fucking percent real. Felt like… shit, it felt like he was in the middle of a seriously hot situation he never considered before —never even wanted, but with _this_ thing? Fuck, this was...fucking amazing.

Mickey dropped down to his elbows, unable to support himself on his hands. He couldn’t move yet, not yet. He'd be done before he even started. Jackson was rubbing up and down his spine, whispering to him, holding himself and the toy still.

“This is so fucking hot,” Jackson murmured. "Oh my god."

Mickey felt a shudder creep up his back; he groaned, hips shifting forward. He groaned again, breathing heavy, trying to fill his lungs up. Had to breathe, had to really fucking breathe and calm the fuck down.

Finally, “Oh fuck,” worked its way out of his throat. Then didn’t stop. “Fuck… fuck —ah _fuck_ , Jack… fuck—”

“That’s it,” Jackson soothed. Mickey could hear it in his voice —he was barely holding himself together, too. “Keep moving, Mick. Feel it, okay? Just feel.”

“M’gonna fucking come,” Mickey grunted, but his hips pushed back, then forward. Fucking into the toy, fucking back onto Jackson. Couldn’t move without it sending chills through his entire nervous system. Couldn't move without some part of him being touched just right, being coaxed to give in and come.

“S’okay,” Jackson kept his voice low as he bent over Mickey’s back, supporting himself with his free hand on the bed, his mouth peppering kisses on the back of Mickey’s neck. “Keep going.”

When Mickey felt Jackson biting into the back of his shoulder, it was all the more convincing he needed. Every deep roll of his hips was punctuated with a strained moan. Mickey got a good rhythm as he fucked into the toy. Only lasted about a dozen and a half times, but those dozen and a half times fucked him _all_ the way up. 

When he came, he held onto the headboard. Both hands, squeezing tight, hips stuttering while he listened to Jackson’s harsh breathing behind him, felt his boyfriend start to pick up where he left off. It was a lot more intense than Mickey thought it would have been. He didn’t know how Jackson was managing to hold this thing and fuck him at the same time. Guy was a fucking multitasker, and Mickey wasn’t questioning it. 

But he was right at that edge for a few seconds, Jackson taking the toy away, replacing it with his tight grip, getting Mickey there quick. Mickey held onto the headboard for dear fucking life as he dove head first over the cliff, taking Jackson with him.

And after, careful moving and soft hands pairing with soft lips, they found the strength to slide out of bed and shuffle into the shower. Hot, hot water. More soft hands —gliding soft, and tired lips working just a little longer. Mickey knew his lips would be sore as fuck tomorrow, and around his mouth. Worth every fucking second. 

Jackson scrubbed Mickey’s hair, working the soap in, massaging his scalp. And at that point, his throat was tired like the rest of his body, but Mickey groaned low from he feeling. Especially when Jackson slid his working hands down the back of his neck, to his shoulders. All soapy and working nice. Mickey turned to face his boyfriend, reaching for him, holding him while Jackson grinned at him. Still loving on him. Mickey loved Jackson’s touch. It was soothing. Safe.

They fell asleep tangled up under the nice bedding. Legs like pretzels, noses brushing each other. Mickey couldn’t get close enough, kept grabbing for Jackson, kept pulling him closer. He didn’t want any of this to end, didn’t want to go back to the real world. Fuck, he loved this guy so fucking much. He’d do anything for him. Any fucking thing. And he was okay with that. More than okay with that. It didn’t scare him, didn’t make him nervous. 

This was it. Him and Jackson. Jackson and him. It. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have a moment to talk about our slutty savior Mickey Milkovich?
> 
> (also if you didn't catch on to what the toy was, it was a fleshlight) smh @ myself


	18. Onward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise update! :)

A lot can happen in a month.

For starters, there was the new job. Mickey had scraped enough money together to buy the equipment he needed —clippers, good shears, guards, and a bunch of other shit. Got himself a seat in a barber shop that was willing to take him on in a trial basis —gave him three months to more-or-less prove himself. He knew they kept an eye on him, him being an ex-con and all. That was fine. 

The shop was owned by this real old couple. Old school barber and hair stylist type, been around South Side for fucking ever. Mickey had to think real hard to back in the day —back when he was still figuring shit out, real real young. He thinks that his old man might have brought him and his brothers there. To the shop that he was working in. Maybe. The old man (name was Earl) seemed to have a flash of remembrance in his eyes at his last name.

Mickey had been keeping to himself mostly. Staying quiet, just watching his surroundings, watching the other barbers. Watch and learn —that’s what his dad always said, and even though the motherfucker was a piece of shit, Mickey never forgot that. Always watch, always learn. So that’s what he’d been doing for the past few weeks at the shop, picking up shit he never learned in prison. New techniques, correct ways to clean shit, correct ways to handle the clippers. Watch and learn.

And then there was the divorce papers. Svetlana put them down in front of Mickey, all casual. Mickey signed them, no question asks. Wasn’t a big deal. Piece of fucking paper, and neither one of them ever wanted this shit anyways. Yev asked Mickey if he was going to marry Jackson now. Mickey told him no. It was harder to say then he thought it would’ve been. Felt weird, felt like he was saying something he shouldn’t’ve been —like he was betraying Jackson. He knew he wasn’t, just felt like it.

Because he knew, he saw, what Jackson wanted one day. Watch and learn. Always watching, always learning. It was a piece fucking paper. You could be with someone forever and never get married, right? That was fine, right? For the past month, this settled in Mickey’s gut. Eating at him. Nothing bad, nothing to make him pull away from Jackson. Fuck, maybe it caused him to hold onto him tighter. He didn’t know, but nothing was weird because of it.

Things with Jackson… fuck, they were amazing. They were settling in together. Finding their rhythm, getting comfortable. Even bickered a few times. And then it just smoothed over, because they  _ talked _ about shit, they didn’t dwell on it, didn’t let it rot away in their mouths. It was all in the open, every part. No secrets, no games, no bullshit. Just Mickey and Jackson —and Yev and Svet.

In the past month, Jackson had slept over only twice, after Jackson had asked Yev if it was okay (which while Mickey still had a hard time with understanding why it was all up to his kid, he kind of got it). Mickey had sat through  _ four _ Harry Potter movies (and fell asleep halfway through each one, but whatever). He’d listened to his son and his boyfriend talk about the movies —and the books. Just sat there and listened, trying his fucking hardest not to smile like an idiot, but failing. Because Jackson and Yev were fucking bonding, and getting along. They joked around with each other, and teased each other. Like friends. 

Mickey didn’t realize how important it had become that Svetlana and Jackson got along until the last month. At first them talking annoyed him. Didn’t want them talking about him, and all that shit. And then Jackson gave him that look. That slow smile, shaking head look before he kissed him. He didn’t need to say anything. Mickey got it. Felt better. It was better that they got along; she was the mother of his kid, and of course she was going to want to have some sort of communication with Jackson. If she were dating someone, Mickey would want to make sure whoever was a decent person too —them being around his kid and all. So… it was fine.

He’d been using that key Jackson gave him. That first time it had been surreal as hell, just walking into Jackson’s place like that. But his boyfriend seemed to love it, waiting for him around the corner with big puppy eyes and a hard kiss. He’d breathed against Mickey's mouth that he loved him, all that shit. That had been a fun night.

And then to top it all off… Colin. Mickey hadn’t seen him, but he’d finally heard word about him, about what he’d been up to. Surprisingly, Mickey had been relieved —genuinely fucking relieved, able to breathe a little easier— to learn that Colin was not only still alive, but he was okay. Not even in prison or some deep trouble, just decided that Chicago was too damn cold. He’d decided to trade in his winter boots for flip flops, landing in Miami. Had himself a girlfriend, and a second kid on the way. Still dealing and doing the standard Milkovich bullshit, but when Mickey finally got that asshole on the phone he sounded relatively happy.

Iggy of course, was still in Indiana. Still locked up. Fucking Iggy; could never stay away from that fast cash, could never stay away from the thrill. He’d be okay. Iggy was always fucking okay. Mickey got him on the phone, finally making the decision to sit down and scroll through his old contacts. He had to get a hold of someone to jump over to the prison in Indiana to talk to Iggy and give him Mickey's number. It was a bitch of a process. 

But he was okay. Iggy was Iggy. He could probably survive a nuclear holocaust with a bag of weed, some beef jerky, and a can opener. Prison was nothing for him. Kind of sad, but the guy was bred for it, like the rest of the Milkovich boys. Iggy was a natural though. He had a few more months to go; Mickey told him to keep his nose clean —not to get in any shit so he could get the fuck out of there.

And now, ten years and one month had passed since he’d last seen the house he grew up in. He managed to go thirteen months outside of prison without so much as driving by. But then something happened. Nothing monumental, but something in him pulled one day, made him pull his coat on and start walking. Something that itched ever since he’d met Jackson’s mom, seen Jackson’s childhood home.

Ten fucking years, and the shithole that was the Milkovich house looked pretty much the same. It was… surreal. Surreal didn’t even cut it though. It was like the house had been waiting for the past ten years. Waiting for him. It always did seem to have a life of its own.

But… how? How was it that South Side got built up for the most part, but this fucking house wasn't either bulldozed over or renovated yet? Mickey shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes scanning over the boarded up windows, the overgrown lawn. It looked the same, but maybe somehow more sad. Which was quite a feat because it was a pretty miserable house to begin with. 

A kid was coming down the sidewalk on a bike. Headphones hanging around his neck, backpack strapped on. Mickey nodded to the kid, waving him down to stop.

"Ay, who lives here?" He asked

The kid pulled a face, keeping his distance. He glanced at the house in question, then back to Mickey, "Why?"

Mickey rolled his eyes, "Just answer the fucking question, kid."

He sucked his teeth at Mickey, fucking punk, then shrugged, "S'a trap house, bro. been empty for years."

"You for real?"

"Yeah. Probably find a couple tweakers if you're lucky. I heard they wanna knock it down." 

Mickey nodded to himself, looking at the house again as he waved the kid off. He chewed on his bottom lip, little flashes of everything that ever happened in that house. The bad shit... the good shit. So much. So fucking much happened in that house. His chest got all tight thinking about it. 

“Fuck it," Mickey whispered as he took his hands out of his pockets, walking through the broken down chainlink gate.

The frame of the front door was busted. All rotted and broken in, like it had been taken by a crowbar or some shit. Mickey can't remember if it had always been like that, or if that was new. Shit, ten years, he was surprised the door was the same in the first place. 

He cleared his throat as he stepped inside. The smell of mold and filth was overpowering, and Mickey found himself pressing the back of his hand to his nose and mouth, taking a look around. 

It  _ was _ a trap house, the kid wasn't lying. Dirt and dead leaves, and trash, and broken glass everywhere. Spray painted walls. Torn up kitchen. It wasn’t ever a nice place to live in, it was always shitty and dirty. But now… someone just beat the dog shit out of it, and left it for dead.

The couch he grew up on was shredded down to its busted frame, under a pile of trash and dirty sheets. There was no other furniture left, not that he could see from the front door. But there were torn up, filthy mattresses stacked in the corner of the living room, and piles of stiff dirty clothes scattered everywhere. Mickey had to sidestep needles and blackened spoons, in the hallway. He had to step over a baby's car seat that was being held together with duck-tape. That was kind of a horrifying sight in and of itself. 

Standing in front of his bedroom door was the most surreal feeling in the world, and he couldn't help but wish that someone was with him. Jackson came to mind first, but Mickey didn't really want his boyfriend seeing this shit. Jackson was born and raised South Side, he knew the drill, knew how bad it could get. But… this was bad. This was really bad —worse than it had ever looked.

He pushed the door open. It was heavy, heavier than he remembered, swinging open with a loud, tired creak. In all honesty, he probably shouldn’t have went in there. Probably should have just left it all alone. Because when he opened the door, he saw that the couch wasn’t the only piece of furniture left in the house. His bed was left too —all broken down and covered in a mix of filthy clothes, sheets and towels. Looked like rat shit scattered everywhere too. Kind of fitting.

“Jesus,” Mickey whispered, shaking his head. 

He kind of thought that something would happen when he walked into his room. Kind of thought that he’d feel something other than this odd ball of nostalgia in his chest. He couldn’t decide it was a bad nostalgia or good, but it was there. He’d started to build a life in this fucking house —with his little weird, fucked up family. That got taken away from him, but it had been there for a moment. He’d held it for a moment. Held it really close, held it tight.

Mickey cleared his throat, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes were stinging, tearing up a little. He was happy now… finally. He was good now, and didn’t ever want to go back to  _ before _ . Didn’t miss it now. It was just the thought of how he was getting shit together back then, how he was finally fucking free from Terry, finally able to breathe. He’d just gotten that to himself before it was ripped away. Maybe it sounded fucked up, but he felt sorry for that kid he used to be. Felt sorry for that kid who put all his hopes into a guy, and a life that he thought would last forever. God, that kid had been so naive.

The carpet was caked with dirt and dust; the window had been broken and boarded up, and broken in again. There were dozens and dozens of pushpins dotting the walls —dirty, cracked walls. Some pushpins had bits of paper stuck under them.

Mickey moved deeper into his old room, towards his closet, chewing on his bottom lip. He’d wondered… probably not. He’d wanted could check though, that’s why he was here. With his foot, he pushed a pile of newspapers out of the way, pushed a crumpled beer can out of the way too before he knelt down, careful not to put his knee on the dirty carpet. Who knew what else was caked in there besides dirt.

“Fuck,” Mickey swore under his breath, reaching to the back corner of the closet, to the loose edge of the carpet, pulling it back to expose the wood underneath. He coughed from dust flying around him, wiping at his nose with the back of his free hand while he pulled the carpet back further.

There was a loose floorboard. He popped it out, peering down into the dark space there. “Holy shit,” he shook his head, reaching in. 

First he pulled out a thick roll of cash, pocketing it because it was his in the first place. Then the heavy revolver —there was a single bullet in it, packed up and ready to go. Mickey chewed on his bottom lip while he turned the gun in his hands. He took the bullet out, tossing it behind him before dropping the gun to the floor with a thud. 

A few more things were laid carefully under the floor. Bottle of pills, a couple little baggies of (old as shit) coke, half a sandwich bag full of (old as shit) meth —things he’d kept in emergencies to sell. Shit he could move quick if he really needed to. And finally, he pulled out a photograph. Faded, kind of crumpled, and a little damaged from water, but still visible.

He wiped over the picture with his hand, getting off bits of dust and dirt, sighing down at the person who looked back up at him. And then he pocketed the picture, putting everything else back into the cubby, closing it up so it looked untouched.

 

* * *

 

Yev sat happily next to Mickey in the little vinyl-lined booth. He had a fat stack of pancakes in front of him (chocolate chip), watching with huge eyes as Mickey poured the syrup for him. Turns out, the kid had a pancake appetite like his father, and Mickey felt a small amount of pride in that. Especially when Jackson watched from the other side of the booth, that familiar look of humor, horror, and exhaustion as he watched all that sticky syrupy goodness drown the pancakes.

“You two are sick,” Jackson said.

“You’re sick,” Yev shot back, a little wicked grin on his face. All Milkovich.

“You’re mom’s sick,” Jackson countered.

“You’re face is sick,” Yev scowled.

Jackson arched a brow at him, “Sick from looking at  _ your _ face.”

Yev paused, head shaking, the wheels clearly turning before he blurted out, “You’re… dumb!”

Mickey winced through a smile, looking over at his son, “Oof, kid…”

“I know, that was weak,” Yev sighed. Mickey had to admit, it was pathetically adorable. He watched the kid reach his hand across the table, offering Jackson a handshake, “You win this one.”

“You’ll get me next time,” Jackson winked, shaking his hand.

They all did this now —Saturday breakfast, before Jackson had to go to work. Svetlana tagged along once, but for the most part it was just the boys. Mickey loved it. He loved sitting with Yev across from Jackson. Loved watching the two of them joke around and play their little game of who can rag on each other the best.

Yev was comfortable with Jackson now —wholeheartedly comfortable. And that felt so fucking good. The kid might have put up a little resistance before meeting Mickey’s new boyfriend, but they were buddies now. And Svetlana was comfortable with Jackson too, now. She hadn’t had a problem with him, but being  _ Mother Russia _ , she was protective of her bear cub. 

But she was comfortable with leaving Yev with Jackson for a couple hours while she had to work down in the bar, until Mickey got home from the barber shop. Comfortable with having him spend the night. Comfortable with Mickey taking Yev over to Jackson’s for dinner one night, so the kid could meet the gargoyle (much of the same reaction as Mickey first had upon meeting the hairless cat). 

It. Felt. So. Fucking. Good. Like his life was settling in,  _ finally _ . Like that thing he got ripped out of his hands all those years ago was remolded and placed right back into his grasp. All warm and sweet —not perfect, and not like a dream. But it was  _ real _ . It was… family. His family. Jackson was becoming part of that, his whole presence wasn’t just an  _ addition _ , it was making it  _ better _ . Mickey’s small family with Yev and Svetlana had been okay. Jackson seemed to bring everyone closer though, like he opened this door to Mickey and the mother of his child actually getting to know each other, for  _ real _ this time. It was so fucking hard to explain, it was just… complete with Jackson. Right. Good.

After breakfast, Jackson wanted Yev to come to the tattoo shop —he’d been wanting the kid to see it for a while now, and right when it opened was perfect. The three of them walked in, Yev kind of behind Mickey, trailing close, even stepped on the back of his shoe as they walked through the door. Mickey had to admit that it was kind of adorable that he got all shy about it, looking around with his wide blue eyes. Like he reverted a couple years or something. It was a lot to take in for a kid, after all. Nothing that Yev had  _ ever  _ seen before.

“My favorite boys,” Delia grinned from the front desk. Then she caught sight of the little boy peeking around from behind Mickey, and as expected —as with most women who first caught sight of the littlest Milkovich— her face lit up, mouth dropping open in a wide smile. “Oh my god, is this…?”

Mickey smirked, nodding his head as he reached back to run his hand over Yev’s dark hair, “Yeah.”

Delia abandoned her post, coming around the front desk, gently shoving Jackson out of her way, “Move Jack, lemme see the baby.”

“Jesus,” Jackson laughed.

Yev grunted softly behind Mickey in protest of being called a baby; Mickey snorted a laugh, moving so Delia could get a look at the kid. He stood there in his big gray jacket, his thermal, his dark jeans, his black beanie clutched in his hands. Say what you wanted about the Milkoviches, but they made cute as fuck kids. 

“Hi,” Yev mumbled as he looked up at Delia as she looked right back down at him. 

“Hi,” Delia smiled as she returned the greeting. It was hard for Yev not to smile right back, because honestly, Delia’s smile was fucking contagious. Then she crouched down a little, moving her hair over one shoulder (Yev kept staring at all her tattoos, the studs in her dark cheeks, the shaved bit on the side of her head). “I’m Delia,” she stuck her hand out. “I’ve heard so much about you from your biggest fan,” she tilted her head towards Jackson.

Mickey glanced over at his grinning boyfriend. Jackson was leaning back against the front desk, watching quietly. “Ay, he’s been talking trash, Yev,” Mickey cracked, gently knocking the back of his hand against Yev’s shoulder.

That made the kid laugh, finally. Made him relax a little as he took Delia’s hand, shaking it. “I’m Yevgeny,” he said. “Yev.”

Delia nodded, “Got it. That’s a cool name.”

Yev shrugged, sighing casually, “It’s Russian.” The three adults all laughed, and that only seemed to make Yev smile bigger. He always liked that, making people laugh. “I like your tattoos,” Yev added quietly, then pointed to Delia’s face, “Are those real?”

Delia nodded, pushing her tongue against the back of one cheek piercing, making it wiggle —making Yev’s eyes go wide while he laughed and looked up at Mickey. “Whoa!”

“Cool shit, right?” Mickey grinned.

Delia playfully slapped at Mickey’s arm as she stood up, “You watch your mouth around this baby, he’s gonna start talking like you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, nodding his head —Delia made the rules after all, everyone knew. “Yeah, yeah—”

“Oh, he says worse at home,” Yev decided to pipe up, still keeping a little close to Mickey though. “And  _ not _ at home… everywhere, actually.”

Jackson snorted a loud laugh as Mickey reached down, ruffling the top of his son’s hair, “What I tell you about snitching?”

“I’m gonna check this, and then I’ll show you around, okay?” Jackson said to Yev, moving around to behind the front desk.

Delia clicked her tongue, following him back behind the desk, “Jack, you start moving my post-it’s, I’m gonna kill you.”

“I’m not moving your damn post-it’s!”

“You  _ always _ move them —you’re moving them now! What are you doing?”

Mickey grinned at Jackson and Delia’s bickering while he hung back and watched his son look around the waiting area. He found himself doing this a lot, surprisingly —just watching Yev. Hard to believe the kid was going to be eleven soon. Nine years ticked by so fucking slow when he was locked up, but seeing the kid every day, seeing him grow… shit, Mickey couldn’t grab onto the seconds quick enough.

Yev picked through a book on the coffee table, shuffled over to look at a couple posters full of old school sailor-looking designs (traditional, he remembered Jackson had said), then Mickey grinned when Yev finally got the courage to poke his head around the front desk to see what was going on.

“We got a wild one!” Mickey rolled his eyes when he heard Benny’s unmistakable holler from the back of the shop. “Kid in the shop!”

Yev froze up, backing away from the front desk, body spinning around as he desperately looked for Mickey. Mickey chuckled, shaking his head as he watched his kid move his ass to stand next to Mickey again.

“Mick’s kid, it’s fine!” Jackson yelled in response.

Something that Jackson had told Mickey about Benny, that Mickey hadn’t had the chance to see before right then, was that kids fucking  _ loved _ Benny. He was like a magnet. The guy popped up front as soon as he heard that Yev was there, with this big ass goofy smile, and the nervous tension that had been hovering around Yev had suddenly just dissipated. 

Mickey couldn’t figure it out, but he wasn’t complaining. Benny was tall as shit, packed full of tattoos —even a couple on his face— and yet  _ that’s _ the guy who made his son not be so fucking wound tight in the new setting. They did the introductions like Delia had done with Yev, and then before Mickey knew it, Benny had his hand curled around Yev’s shoulder and was showing him towards the work stations.

“Ay,” Jackson protested, finally finished with looking at whatever he had been looking at behind the front desk. “ _ I’m _ giving him the tour!”

Benny stopped, looking over his shoulder, his tone all business, “Uhm, excuse me, this is  _ my _ client.”

Mickey grinned, following them as Jackson continued to complain, “Benny, you can’t be cooler than me right now.”

Mickey suppressed his eye-roll, but Benny did not as he looked down at Yev, “You want some ink?”

“YES!” Yev immediately answered, his head ferociously nodding.

“Huh?” Mickey frowned.

Delia, thankfully, answered Mickey’s unasked question, “Benny makes temporaries for kids. Got a whole book of ‘em.”

At this point, Jackson was the closest Mickey had ever seen to a fucking temper tantrum, shoving his hands in his pockets, brows drawn tight, “M’gonna kick your fucking ass. Not his first one, I’m serious, Ben.”

Benny crouched down next to Yev, stage-whispering to him, while tipping his head towards Jackson, “Okay Jack-Jack’s using his big-boy voice, so he means business.” Yev laughed, sneaking a peek at Jackson. “So  _ he’s  _ gonna show you around and if your dad says it’s okay, you’ll probably get a sweet tattoo, then I’ll show you where the snacks are. Sound good?”

Yev nodded, “Sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Nagini was howling in the hallway when Mickey let himself into Jackson’s place. Little gargoyle just pacing back and forth in front of the entrance to the kitchen, sitting down to howl into said kitchen, then went back to pacing. Mickey shook his head at her, listening to rustling going on in the direction of where Nagini was yelling, peeking around the corner to see his boyfriend had made a huge mess. Jackson was attempting to cook. Mickey bit his lip to stop from laughing.

He looked down at Nagini, who was looking back up at him, her huge gold eyes questioning as she croaked at him. Mickey shook his head, shrugging his shoulders, not knowing what to tell her. She walked away, having enough of her dad’s messy chaos in the kitchen.

“Oh shut up, ya ol’ bitch,” Jackson called from the stove. Still facing away, seemingly unaware that Mickey had even arrived.

Mickey smirked, stepping into the kitchen, head tilting to the side as he briefly checked Jackson’s ass out. Jeans looked good, he couldn’t help it. “See, if I said that to her, you’d be pissed.”

Jackson jumped, dropping something, “Fuck — _ shit _ !”

Mickey snorted a laugh, coming up behind Jackson, grabbing at his hips as he pressed against his back. “The fuck you doing?” he asked, peering over his shoulder. “What is that?”

Jackson sighed, leaning back against Mickey, defeated as he mumbled, “It’s supposed to be this country-ass beef and vegetable stew.”

Mickey pressed his lips against the side Jackson’s neck as he chuckled, looking at the sticky, clumpy mess of vegetables and meat in the pot. “Were you high and watching cooking shows again?”

Jackson made a half-whine noise as he dropped his spoon, bringing his hands up to cover his face; Mickey laughed harder. “That pioneer lady made it look so  _ easy _ ,” Jackson’s muffled voice bit out.

But Mickey heard that grin in his boyfriend’s voice as he turned him around so Mickey could see him, unable to stop laughing as he took Jackson’s hand away from his reddened face. God, he just made everything lighter, made everything a little more fucking worth it. “Baby…” he grinned, pulling Jackson closer. “How the fuck —what?”

Jackson was looking at him weird. Wide eyes, smiling lips parted as he held onto Mickey’s shoulders. Face was still red, but his eyes lit up all bright and shiny. “Uh… nothing. Nothing, I just uh, missed you. Missed your face, c’mere.”

Mickey pulled a face, letting Jackson’s arms wrap around his neck, accepting the soft kiss from the other man, “Mmkay. You got more broth?”

“Yeah,” Jackson sighed, resting his forehead against Mickey’s.

Mickey gently shrugged Jackson’s arms off of him, taking his hands in his own while he leaned forward to press into another kiss, “You start cleaning this shit up. I’ll fix that clusterfuck.”

“Thank you,” Jackson grinned. Then he just paused and looked at Mickey again, all mischief in his dark eyes, all these things dancing behind them.

Mickey arched a brow at him, “The fuck you keep staring at me for?”

Then Jackson’s hands were touching his face, drawing him closer, lips brushing against his, “Can’t tell you. If I do, it’ll ruin it.”

Mickey didn’t know what his boyfriend was talking about, but he wasn’t going to protest a soft kiss like that, no way in hell. He felt his body melt forward, chasing for another, but Jackson pulled away to start cleaning up. Damn tease.

Mickey had tried to fix Jackson’s stew. Tried. It was… well, it wasn’t the worst thing that Mickey had ever eaten. Prison food? Definitely worse. They didn’t eat everything that was in their bowls, went heavy on the slices of bread, and shrugged a lot at the taste. Again, Mickey  _ definitely _ had worse.

After dinner, Jackson had his hand resting on Mickey’s thigh as they watched TV. Both of them sitting back against the couch, feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table, Nagini curled up in her tower. For the past month or so, Jackson had been trying to catch Mickey up on a whole laundry list of shows that Mickey had missed while he was locked up. Right now it was Daredevil —and Mickey kept it to himself but Frank Castle? Jesus fuck, the guy was badass as hell and wasn’t too fucking bad to look at either.

Evidently he wasn’t keeping it to himself very well though, because Jackson had lightly nudged his side with his elbow, “You want a handkerchief to wipe that drool off your face? That’s like the fifth time you’ve grunted.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey elbowed him back.

Then Jackson threw his arm around Mickey’s neck, dragging him close as he laughed, “You’d totally fuck Frank Castle.”

His face felt like it was on fucking fire. Mickey couldn’t remember the last time he felt that playful, embarrassed heat, that clench in his stomach. He pushed against Jackson, laughing with him as both of them tumbled sideways, laying out on the couch. 

He grabbed for Jackson’s sides, digging the tips of his fingers in, making him laugh harder and jerk his body, “You’re a  _ fucker _ ,” Mickey told him. 

Jackson tried to shimmy out from under Mickey, but he wouldn’t let him. Knees bracing his hips, holding him tight. Through his loud laughs and pleas for mercy, Jackson wouldn't let up his teasing, “Ay, you think Frankie is more of a power-driver guy, or a slow and steady?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey didn’t try to hold back the grin. “I swear to  _ christ _ , I will make you piss yourself.”

Jackson threw his head back, voice a little hoarse from yelling and laughing, “I’ll shut up when you admit that you want Frank Castle to slap that ass and make you call him Sir!”

And then it was later, much later, when the two of them were laid back in Jackson’s bed, sheets bunched up around their hips as they passed a joint back and forth. It was then when Mickey finally sighed that he wanted to show Jackson something; he reached over to his jeans on the floor next to his side of the bed. He fished around his pockets, forgetting where he’d put the old picture until he found that edge of glossy paper. Mickey pulled it out and sat back with Jackson, holding the picture between his fingers, giving it to his boyfriend.

Jackson was silent as he took to from Mickey, setting the joint aside on the nightstand —trading it for his glasses that Mickey fucking loved. He sat up a little straighter, looking down at the photo. Mickey sat up with him, watching Jackson’s face frown slightly down at the person staring up at him.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

To be honest, Mickey didn’t know why the picture mattered. He didn’t know that person, not really —was never given the chance. “My mom,” he answered quietly. “S’the only picture I ever had of her; figured since you can’t meet her…”

Jackson just stared at Mickey for a second, like he was trying to figure this out. Jackson didn’t know… Mickey hadn’t told him much about his mom other than she’d died, and had been an addict. He saw in his boyfriend’s eyes that he was taken off guard by the woman —the  _ girl _ — in the picture.

“Pretty sure that was after she had Iggy,” Mickey continued. “I dunno though, could’ve been after me.” 

“What was her name?”

“Mary,” Mickey answered. Simple name for a simple girl who got thrown into a shitstorm of a life. Didn’t know anything about where she came from —her parents, her family, her life before Terry. It was like she didn’t exist before him. Barely existed while she was with him.

Again, Jackson was quiet, back to staring down at the picture that he was holding so fucking carefully. “She’s…”

“Young,” Mickey supplied, knowing. 

Yeah. She was young. Too young. She might have looked around seventeen or eighteen in the picture, but it was hard to tell her actual age. She always looked a little older than she was —everyone always said that. And there was no date written on the back, nothing. Mickey never asked anyone, never thought to. All he knew was that the picture was taken before her cheeks started sinking in, before the bags under her eyes went dark like bruises, before her skin went bad and ashen. Back when she still had a little light behind her eyes. Before Terry finally gave her a taste of heroin.

Jesus, the guy looked like someone had kicked his fucking cat. All sad and quiet. Jackson sighed, still looking down at the picture as he leaned back with Mickey. Shoulder to shoulder, both of them looking down at the girl with the slight grin —like once upon a time before her world was set on fire by Terry Milkovich, she’d been a troublemaker. Mickey liked to think that sometimes, to fill in the giant blank space of who the fuck Mary was. He didn’t know, not really. She could’ve been well behaved, could’ve been the ideal child for all he knew.

Mickey had her eyes —her mouth, the arch of her brows… same dark hair. Him and Mandy, they got the most of her. That’s something he  _ did _ know.

“She was beautiful,” Jackson finally said.

She was. She was also a junkie. She was abused, and  _ prey _ , and a ton of other shit he didn't want to think about because it was so fucking  _ wrong _ . But she was his mom —as little as he knew about her, as little as he remembered, he remembered what she looked like. The picture always filled in the gaps. He couldn’t’ve remembered without it, not really.

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, taking the picture back when Jackson offered. He looked down at it for a second, thumb swiping over her face, her dark hair. “She had been before she got all fucked up.”

“Four kids, right?” Jackson asked. All quiet and unsure.

Mickey nodded. He set the picture aside as he answered, “Yeah, four kids. Surprised we weren’t all messed up when she had us.” He didn’t know why he said that, it just came out. “All the shit she was on. Never knew her sober except for a few days —don’t think she ever stopped once she started. Can’t fucking blame her though, being dragged into this fucking family.”

“I’m sorry,” Jackson said.

Mickey shrugged, “Is what it is, man. Didn’t mean to bring it down like this, just wanted… fuck, I dunno, just wanted to show you her.”

“Do you miss her?”

Mickey shrugged again, “Didn’t really know her.” He couldn’t remember a single conversation he’d had with the woman. Not a one. How fucking sad.

Jackson nodded, staying quiet. Probably didn’t know what to say —knowing him, he probably had a hundred questions, but couldn’t figure out which was okay to ask. Mickey didn’t blame him. How could you not have a million questions after seeing a picture of a young girl, and being told that the girl had either two or three kids already? She should’ve been in school —should’ve been smiling big and holding a fucking ice cream cone in the picture.

“Terry was a bigger piece of shit than I told you,” Mickey said, shaking his head. 

It was embarrassing, coming from bad blood like that. Fucking mortifying. That was half of him —coming from the bloodline of Terry fucking Milkovich, coming from all that rot. That was in Mickey. That was  _ his _ fucking blood —blood he passed to his own son.

“Hey,” Jackson got his attention, hand sliding to cup the side of Mickey’s face, making him look at him. “Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking. Stop.”

Mickey swallowed hard. Nodded, just slightly. It was hard to stop. He tried. Didn’t really work.

“You’re you,” Jackson said. Kissed him, pulled him closer, slid them down so Mickey could lay with him, settling up against his side, head on Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson kept looking at him. Noses brushing against each other, fingers ghosting through the tips of Mickey’s hair, he whispered again and his breath bleed against Mickey’s mouth, “Okay? So stop.”

Mickey slid his hand up Jackson’s bare chest, going for the back of his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him. He stopped thinking.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been wondering, I've been working on a new project, hence the MIA status of updates on my current WIP's. 
> 
> I've updated my [mxj page](http://jellovich.tumblr.com/mxj) since all the links were broken due to the new url, so you can find a lot of EXTRA Mickey and Jackson goodness there to tide you over until whever the next update is! xoxo
> 
> Also, for Mickey's mother I'm picturing [a young Liv Tyler](http://eskipaper.com/images/liv-tyler-14.jpg).


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